Jf^ 







K..tored, aeeorJing to act of tong...... ia tl.o vc.r IS.H. b. 

H. GOLD ROGERS- 

"'^' "^^^'"'^ "''''■ "' *"« '''^*"'<'* ^0-' Of *e t„ito„ Sta.c. „. aua r.r t.o 
Southern DistnV-t of Xo'.v Y.,rk. 



LETTERS FROM ITALY : 

AND 

VITELLI: 

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS. 

ALb 

THE SURRENDER OF CREUTA: 

A TRAGEDY IN THREE ACTS, 



H. GOLD EOaBES, 



NEW YORK : 
W. H. TINSONj PRINTER, 24 BEEKMAN STRF 



1854, 






TMP96-0067C8 



LETTERS. 



London, July 20, 1840. 
My Dear Friend : 

It is a sad thing to leave tlie country of our birth, and to 

abandon for years the home, and the friends, that are dear to 
U&. jSTo matter how cold the heart may be ; no matter how 
much it may have been seared and deadened with the heartless 
intercourse of the world, it will be more or less affected at a 
separation that is to continue for so great a length of time, and 
where mountains and seas raise themselves up as an impassable 
barrier against the interchange of kindly feelings. You can 
readily, then, conceive my emotions after bidding you adieu 
upon the eighth of July. 

I found, however, the Patrick Henry a beautiful ship, and 
her commander, Capt. D ^ a very attentive and intelli- 
gent person. A very agreeable company of ladies, passengers, 
about thirty in number, from all parts of the world, added 
also to the pleasure of the voyage. The Patrick Henry is a 
very elegantly built ship, of about a thousand tons, and un- 
doubtedly a fast sailer. We made the passage to Liverpool 
in nineteen days. We had three days calm weather, and one 
day contrary winds in the channel 

You can scarcely conceive my sensations upon the sight of 
Cape Clear, on the morning of the 21st instant. Could it be 



4 - LETTERS. 

possible, said I to myself, that I am so near to England, the land 
of my fathers, and around whose very name cluster so .many 
storied recollections ? It was a sweet September day in our 
climate, as we sailed up the channel, and discovered to the left 
of us, in the clear sunlight, the green verdure and hills of 
Ireland. 

Upon the morning of the 24th rose in the distance, Holy 
Head, covered with clouds and a shadowy mist. A favorable 
wind carried us by it in the course of a few hours. We gazed 
with delight upon the Light-house, built upon the solid rock, 
rising high in the channel, and watched with much wonder 
our Captain, when directly opposite, hoist the signals of the 
time of our departure from Kew York, the number of the 
days of our voyage, and the name of the ship. 

A telegraph upon the very pinnacle of Holy Head, conveyed 
the intelligence, in two minutes, to Liverpool, a distance of 
eighty miles. Continuing our voyage, we passed" some plea- 
sant AVelsli villages, mostlj'^ inhabited by m.iners. The Snow- 
don Peak was visible, We saw also the white farm houses, the 
small green fields of pasture, upon which herds of cattle 
were grazing, and now and then the lawns and turret-s of 
&02ne gentleman's mansion. 

Most generally the sail up the channel is disagreeable, a 
dense fog covering the sides, and concealing the land from 
view. But then all was calm and bright ; we saw the goats 
on the rocks, and the laborers in the hayiields ; in the after- 
noon, the increasing number of sails, an occasional steamboat, 
the numerous light-houses and buoys, the floating light-ships, 
all informed us that we were approaching Liverpool. About 
nine in the evening, the boat of the custom-house officers 
hailed us ; inquiries were made as to the health of the ship. 
An officer was sent on board, and in a few minutes the ship 
was moored in the harbor, and the passengers had taken 
sail-hoats to go on shore: I stepped on shore with a light and 
happy heart, and was greeted by an old acquaintance, the 
odor of smoke of bituminous coal. I obtained lodgings at the 
Adelphi Hotel, and enjoyed a delicious bath, and comfortable 
bed. The next day I spent in rambling about town. 

Liverpool is strictly a commercial city ; fourteen thousand 
different sails are seen in her harbor, during a year, from all parts 
of the world, and her population is about 320,000. Her 



LETTERS. 9 

aocks are well built, and at great expense ; her City Hall and 
Exchange are elegant buildings. I visited the City Hall ; the 
grand staircase is adorned by a statue of Mr. Canning, by 
Chantry* It is a beautiful piece of work, and represents him 
. with a majestic figure in the robes of a Roman senator, and a 
noble, yet melancholy countenance. 

In the City Hall, are magnificent suites of rooms for the 
Mayor of the city to receive and entertain his guests. His 
salary is £1500 besides servants, carriage, <fec. In front of the 
Exchange is a monument to Nelson; it bears the favorite 
motto, " England expects every man to do his duty." Be- 
grimmed with dust and smoke, it did not excite my admi- 
ration as a work of art. The public buildings in England, as 
well as most private residences, are built of strong and massive 
materials, as if to remain for centuries. 

That character for strength is stamped upon everything. In 
America, we build for the present generation ; the possessor 
knows he cannot control it beyond his own life; therefore, in 
most cases, the light, graceful cottage is the residence of wealth. 
In England, the laws of entailment, primogeniture, and hered- 
itary pride, all conspire to induce the nobles and gentleman 
of fortune, to lay broad and deep the foundations of the 
monuments of his race. 

In the morning, I obtained a seat in the railroad carriages 
to London, by way of Birmingham. I started at half-past 
eight in the morning, and arrived safely at half-past six last 
evening. The distance is one hundred and ninety-two miles. 
I cannot describe the journey of that day to you. Go and 
select some beautiful landscape painting of the olden time, 
with their delicacy of coloring, with their softness of tint, the 
rainbow hues of genius speaking in the canvas. In the front 
ground, green fields and flowers and graceful trees, in the 
background tall old groves, and the towers of majestic castles, 
and then you will have some idea of English scenery. It was 
a soft day, a gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, and, 
as we dashed rapidly along, there appeared to me nothing but 
a succession of beautiful paintings. Now, the neat farm-house, 
the small fields of green separated from each other by fra- 
grant hedges and trees — then, the parks, and elegant mansion 
of some nobleman ; then, again, rise in some distant wood, the 
battlements of some castle or tower partly in ruins. All that 



6 LETTERS. 

I had read of the high order of cultivation of the country, of 
the beauty and neatness of the farms, had given me but' a faint 
idea of the reality. I shall reserve London for a future letter. 
1 have taken lodgings at a Bond Street House, Long's Hotel. 



London^ Aug. 12, 1840. 
My Dear Friend : ^ 

I leave this ancient and wonderful city to-morrow by the 
railroad to vSouthampton, and shall embark from that place to 
Havre, on my v^ay to Paris. To an American, London is full 
of interest. St. Pauls, the tower, Westminster Abbej^, Parlia- 
ment, palaces, with tlieir galleries of paintings, their parks and 
gardens, all excite your admiration and fill your heart with 
pleasing emotions. Yesterday was quite a holiday in London. 
The presence of Leopold, King of the Belgians, and the proror 
gation of Parliament was the occasion of it. You can scarcely 
have any conception of the imposing splendor of the royal reti- 
nue yesterday. It proceeded from Buckingham palace to the 
House of Lords. First came the Horse Guards, with their 
shining breast-plates of steel ; then the royal carriages, some 
six ot seven, bearing the Queen's household, each with six 
horses, with numerous out-riders, postillions, and other domes- 
tics, all glittering with gold lace. Then proceeded a company 
of pet soldiers, lancers, and the carriage used for ceremonies of 
state, containing Prince Albert and the Queen, all followed by 
another portion of the Horse Guards. The Queen's carriage is 
built in an antiquated style, and is as " rich in appearance as 
gold can make it. 

The Queen is quite a pretty woman, with a mild expression 
of countenance. Her face denotes goodness of heart, and pleases 
you from its apparent innocence. Her figure is slight, and her 
stature short. She has a curious expression of mouth when 
interested in anything. She drops the lower lip, which is appa- 
rently too large for the ]nouth. When laughing, she shows her 
teeth, which are good, and her gums, in an extraordinary man- 
ner. I have had frequent opportunities of seeing the Queen in 
her drives in the Park^ and at the Italian opera. Prince Albert 



LETTERS. 7 

has a German look, with light hair and eyes, a round face, a 
good nose, with a slight moustache. He is apparently about 
twenty- three or four years of age. All this pageantry was 
heart-sickening, and made me feel proud that I was an Ameri- 
can. What a spectacle for contemplation ! England and all 
its great interests to be controlled by the caprices and whims of 
a young lady, and still yonnger gentleman, who in America 
would scarcely be thought fit for a representative to a State 
Legislature. . But enough for the present. At a future day I 
will resume again the voluminous subject — London and its ob- 
jects of attraction. 

Yours, &o. 



Paris, August 23, 1841. 

MY DEAR FRIEND : 

I promised you, in my last letter, a further sketch of what 
I saw in England. . My first visit, after my arrival at London, 
was to the Cathedral of St. Paul. This remarkable building 
Was designed by Christopher Wren. The first stone was laid 
on the 21st of June, 1695, and the highest and last stone of 
the majestic pile was deposited by the son, in the year 1710. 
The entire length of the church is 500 feet. The breadth of 
the body is 110 feet, and that of the transept nearly the same. 
The height, from the pavement in the street to the top of the 
cross on the dome, is 404 feet ; it covers nearly tv\^o acres of 
ground. As 1 entered the church, the notes of the high-toned 
organ came pealing through the arches of the dome. It was 
at the hour of service ; I listened for a few moments to the 
choir, and then turned to examine the monuments erected 
to the mighty dead. Between the dome and the choir is a 
monument of Lord ISTeison, by Flaxan ; it occupies a distin- 
guished place against one of the great pillars. Directly oppo- 
site is one erected to the Marquis of Cornwallis, by C. Ressi. 
I noticed also a monument erected to Gen Gibbs, and Packen- 
ham, who fell at New Orleans. It is done by Toclnnarsh, 
and represents these officers in full uniform, the arm of one 
resting on the shoulder of the other. The cathedral is built 
on Ludgate Hill, in the very heart of London. Around it 
roars the hum of that multitudinous city ; the din, clangor and 
bustle of rushing and pressing crowds. As you approach 



8 LETTERS. 

the cathedral it does not appear to you of such gigantic pro- 
portions as it really is. And it is only when you enter its 
arched portal, and cast your eye upwards to the faintly sha- 
dowed pictures upon the top of the dome that your senses are 
oppressed as with the idea of vastness aiid grandeur, of which 
language can convey but a feeble conception. But the most 
interesting spot to me in England was Westminster Abbey. 
It is built in the Gothic order, and is one of the most beauti- 
ful monuments of that style of architecture. Here you see 
the tombs of those who have given England her importance 
and renown throughout the world. Poets and historians, 
artists and actors, nobles and princes, are all mingled here 
in strange yet solemn confusion. The court beauty, vv^hose 
smile was the cynosure of neighboring eyes, and the king's 
jester, whose mirth was wont to set the table in a roar, lie 
here side by side. As you pass through the different chapels, 
the tombs of monarchs, warriors and statesmen, ate shown 
you, to whom history has given the place of honor or of 
infamy. 

You are taught, in the most impressive manner, the vanity 
of all ambitious hopes. It is there that you feel, if you have 
never felt before, what bubbles, and how empty are all titles 
of honor, '* What shadows we are, and what shadows we 
are pursuing." Amongst the statues are many works of art 
and of exceeding beauty. The statues to Lord Chatham, 
Wilberforce, John Kemble, by modern artists, are also speci- 
mens of great taste, and adorn the Abbey. In the chapel of 
Henry VII, are hung up the banners of the Knights of Bath. 
Among the banners I observed that the Duke of Wellington, 
who, I believe, is the last that has received that honor. Be- 
neath banners are oaken seats in antique style. I turned 
down that under the banner of the Duke of Wellington, and 
seated myself on it. 

The tower is also a curious and very ancient building. 
It was for many years the habitation of kings ; then it was 
converted into a prison, but more recently it is used for an ar- 
mory, and a museum. Here are hung up long suits of armor, 
some of iron, others of brass, of every description, and in the 
fashion of every age. The Tower has been the prison-house of 
kings and nobles. The guide points you to the place where the 
beautiful Anne Boleyn perished on the scaffold. In your 



LETTERS. 9 

round, you pass by the cell of Essex, where he lingered out 
his days in the expectation of a pardon from Elizabeth. 
Every one is familiar with his history, and I need not repeat 
it to you. Although the favorite of Elizabeth, the object of 
her deepest love, she allowed him to perish on the scaffold. 
It is said from the effects of his death she never recovered. 

I visited, also, the House of Lords. My office gained me an 
admittance without any difficulty. The regulation is to admit 
no one without an order from some peer. The privilege of be- 
ing admitted to witness debates and public ceremonies is ex- 
tended to the diplomatic corps. I was conducted by the door- 
keeper to a little inclosure of iron, back of the lords, about four 
eet square. When I first entered, there were probably some 
^ozen peers in attendance. The preceding day, committees of 
conference had been appointed by both houses. The first thing 
was a conversation between the Lord Chancellor and Lord 
Brougham, in which the propriety of the Lord Chancellor de- 
livering an opinion in some appeal case, was discussed, while 
the committees of conference were in session : it was thought 
proper to defer it until the committees had acted. The usher 
of the black rod, a gentleman dressed in a black coat, with 
breeches and a sword, then appeared at the bar and informed 
the lords that th^ Managers of the Commons were in attendance. 

Then the committee of ten, previously designated by the 
Lord Chancellor, each one donning a chapeau diplomatique, 
without plumes or ornament, retired to meet the Managers of 
the Commons in conference. There appeared at the bar, the 
speaker and the clerk of the Commons, with certain bills passed. 
The Chancellor advanced from the woolsack, carrying an orna- 
mented bag, in which were deposited the bills. The Speakers 
and the clerk were both dressed in long black gowns and wigs. 
The Lord Chancellor had the same dress. - The Lord Chancellor 
then delivered a short opinion, quoted his authorities, and re- 
ferred to Lord Brougham. The nature of the case I did not 
understand. After the Lord Chancellor had finished, Lord 
Brougham said a few words, and the opinion of the Chancellor 
was confirmed. Lord Brougham has the manners and style of 
an old American lawyer. He has a Scotch, bright, black, 
sparkling eye~a serene and plain countenance, and is very 
rapid and voluble in his delivery, His language is nervous and 
his style of speaking without grace or ornament. Lord Lynd- 
hurst has a dull, heavy countenance. He speaks with senten- 



10 LETTERS. 

tious conciseness. The Duke of Wellington is a very old man, 
and at the present infirm and weak in mind, as lie undoubtedly 
is in body. His face is long, with plain bold features. Nature 
has not stamped upon his face, as it has upon Gen. Jackson's, the 
character of the old soldier. It was just at the close of the 
session, and nothing liks a debate occurred. There was some- 
thing like an animated conversation upon usual topics, purely 
local, and interesting only to an Englishman- Upon the whole, 
the House of Lords, I should judge, was inferior in oratory, 
and in personal appearance, to the Senate of the United States. 
The error of the former appears to me to be a style of speaking 
too plain and common-place, terminating, very often, in a 
loose and desultory conversation. The great characteristics of 
the latter is directly the opposite. A manner to labored and 
pedantic, and a style of oratory to ambitious, I drove out, over 
to Hampton Court, formerly the residence of the royal family. 
It is now abandoned by them. It was bmlt by Cardinal Wol- 
gey ; it is twelve miles from London, The road passes through 
the village of Kichmond. It is an antiquated building, sur- 
rounde*i ,with beautiful gardens, lawns and parks. In it is a 
magnificent collection of pictures, some of them by the older 
artists. The paintings of Titian, Guido, Paul Veronese, Cor- 
rigio, and Raphael, are beautiful specimens of art The Collec- 
tion, too, is rich with the productions of modem artists. The 

NOTB — The -writer was a great admirer cf the fine arts. At a very early 
age he expressed his favorable opinion of them. Painting, too, although it 
has been, perhaps, carried to a greater degree of perfection in modem than 
in ancient times, is vet well worthy of the attention of a refined and polished 
nation. For what art can be of a more elevating character than tha* which 
preserves to us the lineaments of departe*! friends, which exh?: ' *' * :o, 

in all the freshness and bloom of health, and stripped of the . nd 

corruption of mortality. Who has not seen the cheek of fnen ved 

vrith a tear, as it hung over the picture of some deceased friend ? Who haj 
not seen the countenance of love Ht up with a smile aa the portrait of Bome 
absent friend meets the eye f Who is there that does not glow with an en- 
thnsiasm to view them in their exploits, when he beholds the conntenanoa 
of the mighty dead breaming upon him from the painted canras ? Painting, 
also, exhibits the beauties of nature. With what vividness can it represent 
the golden sunset of autumm. the fields glittering with the yellow harvests, 
the exquisite tints of the flower, and the delicate hues of the rainbow. Im- 
agination lends her ready hand to deck the painter's art Guided by her b« 
can portray the dark and terrible effects of passion the racant stare of mad- 
ness, the ghastly smile of dsath, and tha vantoa and lasclTioos tnin of 
pleasure. 



LETTERS. 11 

aost "beautiful painting I ever sa-w, of "West's is there* It is a 
Scriptural piece, Peter denying the Saviour. 

I left London, upon the 14th at noon, and arrived at South- 
ampton at five in the evening* 

The country through which I passed was beautiful, and in a 
high state of cultivation. Southampton is a charming town ; 
It is clean, laid out with large streets, and adorned with parks 
and green lawns. At nine in the evening, I took my passage in 
the steamboat, and arrived at Havre at eleven the next morn- 
ing« I met Mr. Yail, Charge d' Affaires from the United States 
to Spain. Then he had just arrived from New York in the 
packet, Yille de Lyon. Mr. Cambreling, Envoy Extraordinary 
and Minister Plenipotentiary, from the same government to 
Russia, was also in Havre, 

He sailed the same day for St. Petersburgh, in a Havre 
packet. I shall probably be at Turin before either of the two 
arrive at the place of their destination. I left Havre in a 
steamboat for Rouen. The next morning I had a very pleasant 
voyage up the Seine. At Rouen, I took the diligence, and ar^ 
rived at Paris at six in the morning. I [shall leave Paris in a 
few days. 



,, ^ „ 2\irin, September 25th, 1840. 

My Dear Tbiend : ' 

The most agreeable and instructive researches of man are in 
the field of science, history and philosophy. The fields and 
their verdure, the trees, the birds, and the flowers, and their 
history ; the mysterious truths that shine and glitter like ore in 
the richest mine of gold, far down in the deep and hidden 
wells of knowledge are the constant themes of his discourse. 
^ Such were my reflections, when, upon a summer's afternoon 
m the month of August, 1840, I wended my way from apart^ 
ments m the Rue Richelieu, in the city of Paris, a humble de- 
Totee in the pursuit of knowledge, and anxious to throw even 



12 LETTERS. 

a pebble to build up tne fabric of human science, that it has 
been the constant labor of man to erect for ages. 

Tlie city of Paris, near its centre, and where the immense 
multitude of strangers of all nations congregate to promenade, 
the Boulevards abound in historical and interesting associa- 
tions. I turned my footsteps towards the Seine, and was struck 
in passing towards it, with the frequent recurrence of the names 
of Henry IV. and Louis XIY. These are the great names that 
adorn the history of France ; and frequent evidence of their 
munificence, taste, and laborious art, elevate and embelhsh the 
streets of Paris. In every dome that rises to the skies, in every 
curious and quaint edifice, is stamped the impress of their genius, 
and cai'ved the imperishable letters of their names. 

Passing by the immense^pile of the Churche of Kotre Dame, 
80 well described by modern writers of romance, whose gloomy 
towers the imagination has so often portrayed as dull, heavy 
and sombre, and whose bell still dies away upon the ear in 
melancholy cadence, you reach the bridge of stone over the 
Seine, and after a walk of a mile the " Portico of the Garden des 
Plantes." 

The Garden of Plants is the favorite resort of the servants of 
Fi:ance. Here it is that the accomplished Guizot the eloquent 
defender of Washington, whose pen, with lines of matchless 
beauty, has delineated his character, expounded the cause of 
science, and diffused the rays of knowledge throughout the 
world. The learned philosopher, whose diplomacy, at one time, 
guided the destinies of one of the most important nations of 
Europe, here first harangued the literary world, and in the 
salon, and from the tribune charmed his followers witli his lucid 
exposition of the truths of knowledge, and his theory of human 
improvement and perfectibility. 

The Garden of Plants resembles the classic description of the 
groves of Academus. It covers, I should think, an area of 
twenty acres. Two porticos, in the Corinthian style, grace the 
entrance. In the middle of the garden is the lecture room, a 
building plain in its architecture, between one and two hundred 
feet in width, the same in length, and capable of receiving a 
large audience. It is three stories in height. Over it hang 
those magnificent trees, the product of a richer clime, and more 
tropical sun, which, carefully transplanted, diffuses here their 
fragrance, and their aromatic odor. Medical blossoms about 



13 LETTERS. 

of every hue, clime, and shade, and enliven the scene with their 
variagated appearance. Three other buildings, standing in a 
parallel row in the back part of the garden, complete the pic- 
ture of the famous garden of plants. They are ten stories and 
a half in height, of a plain appearance. They are fitted up with 
cases from the floor *'to the ceiling, made air-tight to preserve 
€very description of skins, stuffed animals, birds^ packages of 
flowers dried in the sun, and the roots and seeds of plants. 

A large expenditure is made by the French government for 
their collection, and the ships of war of that nation carefully 
obtain them from all parts of the world. There are also small 
recitation rooms in each of the buildings, as well as apartments 
used for dressing, drying, and preserving the skins of animals, 
and for the chemical analysis of the properties of the plants ob- 
tained from the garden and from foreign countries. 

The day was mild and delicious; a few clouds skirted the 
horzion, sufficient apparently, to prevent the heat from being 
oppressive. In the quiet alcoves of the garden the " Hymettus 
thrilled its thick warbled notes," and harmonized with the song. 
One or two attendants listlessly attended to their duties, and a 
female, dressed in black, after obtaining a few medicinal herbs, 
waited the passing of a public earriage, which, appearing pre- 
cisely at the hour, transported her back to the heart of the 
great and populous city — the appointed place of her destina- 
tion. 

How wise an adaptation to the wants and tastes of a versa- 
tile people, such an improvement on such an extensive scale ! 
How beautiful a scheme of civilizing, refining, and advancing to 
the highest degree of cultivation, a nation fond of blending the 
useful and the agreeable, and instinctively quick to appreciate, 
and rapid to commuicate knowledge ! 

Four days afterwards I left Paris for Lyons. The approach 
to the city is from a long range of hills, and the site is com- 
manding. It is built at the confluence of the town and the 
Khone. Upon one of the surrounding hills is an observatory 
vhich overlooks the whole valley of the Rhone, At the foot of 
the hill is the beautiful cathedral, filled with some choice pic- 
tures, and inviting the attention of the curious and the learned. 
A noble bridge of arches of stone, spans the river, and a long 
facade of ancient stone buildings greets your view. What 
pleases you most is its ancient and venerable appearance, and 

3 



LETTERS. 14 

the beautiful walks upon its riyer. I spent a day in visiting th« 
gallery of pictures and museum. 

Although containing nothing as perfect as the lions at the 
Barberini palace of Rome, or the groups of the Apostles of 
Thorwalsden; still, however, the more delicate and highly 
wrought statues of David deserve the admiration of the lovers of 
the arts. 

David is a native of the city of Lyons, and although his 
works, as a sculptor, may not attract the attention of his co- 
temporaries, yet they are undoubtedly deserviug of immortality. 
He wiiyive, long after his body shall have mouldered to ashes, 
as a most perfect, delineator of man — his passions, his sublime 
genius, his^most exalted patriotism and divinity. 

Sculpture is one of the noblest arts, and its lofty conceptions 
reveal the grandeur and majesty of human character. 

Besides statues and paintings, there are collected the most 
beautiful models of ships and inventions, and choice specimens 
of porcelain. The porcelain of Lyons is of the most delicate 
finish, and the vases are colored in the most exquisite style. An 
additional gallery,^ one liundred feet in length, is filled with the 
finest exhibitions of the genius of the elder masters of painting 
— Guido, Corregio, Salvator Rosa, Raphael, Micha-^1 Angelo, 
are the proud names, still radiant with glory, that are shadowed 
forth in living representations of genius upon the wall. 

Leaving behind me the city of Lyons, with its population of 
one hundred and eighty thousand iahabitants, its magnificent 
Hotel de la Ville, hospital, cathedral, museum and cabinet, I 



Note. — As the opinion of the ^\Titeff may be the subject of inquiry, the fol- 
lowing is copied from one of his early productions ! — "Sculpture is one of 
the noblest specimens of the genius and invention of man. By means of this 
art the patriots and heroes of olden time come down upon an equality, and 
seem almost to live and breathe with us. What a noble incentive to «mula. 
tion, to have the very dead encouraging us onward, and exciting us, by the 
remembrance of their former actions, to honorable exertion. To this source 
may be traced the greatness and grandeur of Greece and Rome. The busts of 
their distinguished warriors and patriots were placed in their temples and 
])alaces, and with them they graced and adorned their streets and public walks. 
These the Roman people regarded with almost superstitious awe and rever- 
ence. In"them they beheld embodied, as it were, every virtue. To them their 
orators appealed when they wished to arouse them to brave and manly action. 
They invoked them by the remembrance of their illustrious actions, and 
pointed to the statues which were placed around them as a living witness of 
their glory." 



15 LETTERS. 

pass^ through the plains of Dauphiny, covered with yerdure, 
and clad in vines, to the toot of the great Alpine range of moun- 
tains, commencing in flowers and terminating in snows, which 
seperates France from Savoy. 

At my first resting-place, Point Beauvoison, the morning after 
leaving* Lyons, I amused myself with a ramble, and geological 
exploration of the hills around ii I found in my short excur- 
sion in an argelaceous soil, the included pebbles and hardened 
quartz — conglomerates usually found in the vicinity of the sea, 
and illustrating the geological truth that at a former day the 
waves of the ocean broke even at the base of the highest range 
of mountains. 

I started upon the same day, after a detention of five hours, 
for Chamberry. The road was picturesque and romantic^ — 
sometimes winding its way in the gorges of the Alps — at an- 
other, emerging in sight of some ancient chateau or church — 
then piercing into some grotto by the side of a lake, whose accu- 
mulated waters, at last acquiring sufficient force, appeared to 
fall into the vale below. The fountain falhng and glistening 
in the sunlight, the defile in the mountains, lend additional 
charms to scenery unrivalled in description, and unparalleled in 
beauty. 

The town of Chamberry is apparently surrounded by the 
peaks of mountains, at the distance of some fifteen or twenty 
miles. It was just at sunset that I entered. "Winding around 
in my descent the base of an Alpine hill covered at the foot 
with vines, and the peaks of the clay-colored mountains, shone 
in the golden light of evening like the turrets of some battle- 
mented castle. 

Tlie beautiful valley is watered by the streams, Alban and 
Loire. The town contains thirteen thousand inhabitants, and is 
the capital of the Duchy of Savoy, and formerly the residence 
of the sovereign. The greater part of the houses are con- 
structed three stories high, and elegantly covered with slates. 
The most regular street is that of Boigne, newly laid out, and 
ornamented with handsome piazzas. The theatre is in very 
good taste. A fountain, most singularly correct in design and 
construction, adorns the market-place. The Arch Bish'op*f 
church, where are observed the rites of the Catholic Church, is 
a beautiful Gothic building, with three naves. The principal 
^ifices are the Hotel de Dieu, Boigne, Charity, and Licurables, 



LETTERS. Id" 

the Hospital of St. Benovit, Orphans, and the Barracks of In- 
fantry, Cavalry, and the Chateau. 

The Goyernor of Savoy, and the Archbishops make there 
their residence. General Boyne, to whom has been erected a 
monimient, at the end of the public promenade, has founded in 
this town numerous establishments of benevolence. Surpass- 
ingly beautiful are the environs of Chamberr}^ There can be 
seen Charmettes, the favorite abode of Rosseau, the celebrated 
French writer. The cottage and the lawn are vocal with the 
praises bestowed by him upon the beauty of Madame Warrens, 
whom he affected to love and adore, and in whose society he 
spent the happiest moments of liis life. It is a rich field for the 
geologist to explore. His eye would drink in with pleasure the 
varied and attractive views that surround it. To climb to 
the top of Xivolet, which separates the basin of Chamberry 
from that of Anniey — to taste the sulphurous waters of Boisse; 
to scale the crest called the Bout de Mondo ; to gaze upon the 
fathomless abyss of Myans, at the foot of the mountains of 
Grenier, where was engulphed in 1244, the town of St. Andre 
with sixteen villages ; to wander, rapt in the loveliness around, 
in the contiguous park of Count de Boigne, would afford him 
inexpressible satisfaction and delight. 

A fatiguing journey by night, carried me to the narrow and 
rocky pass of Bramant D'Essillon. Between steep, precipitate 
and copper colored rocks, tliree or four hundred feet in height, 
in a narrow gorge, stands a fortress upon which the whole re- 
sources of militarj' architecture have been exhausted to render 
impregnable. A mysterious silence reigns throughout, and as 
you pass the outward bastion, you can hear the tread of the 
sentinel, and his oft repeated command passed on, as he notes 
from his tower of observation, the traveler, and passer by. 

I arrived at Lans le Bourg about ten o'clock, and ascended 
Mount Cenis, on horseback. This road, so wonderful a monu- 
ment of the labor and art of man, was constructed and designed 
by Napoleon, and even the Hotel at Lans le Bourg, was built 
by his staff and the officers nearest his person. I was five hours 
in a tranquil summer's day in reaching the summit. Napoleon 
entrusted this immense undertaking to Jean Fabbriani, who in 
five months, aided by three thousand laborers, placed it in an 
improved condition. Since then, it has been the constant effort 
of the kings of Sardinia to keep it in repair. It is truly « 



17 LETTERS. 

proof of regal magnificence. Some of it is built of solid ma- 
sonry, like the marble floor of a palace. 

I Tjas gratified to pass from the regions of filth, misery and 
idiocy which prevails in the small villages in the valley, to the 
gorgeous sunlight, azure clouds, and green colored lake, that 
clothes the mountain's brow. In descending, you pass in sight 
of the Hospital, founded centuries since, by the Countess Ade- 
iusia, and the Emperor, Louis the Goo3^ as he was surnamed. 
It was built for the protection of travellers from the winter- 
storm, and the ravages of war. Now a military fortress, with 
a thousand soldiers guards the monastery, church and hospital. 

Here many tempest-tossed travelers have been relieved and 
sheltered, by the benevolent and virtuous anchorites who in- 
habit it. Their faithful dog has sought the objects of charity 
in the pitiless storm, and saved from death the weary and worn 
traveler, who had laid down cold and insensible to his last sleep. 
The small white cottages, or places of refuge, appear at differ- 
ent intervals, until you reach the valley below. Mount Cenis 
is eight thousand six hundred and fifty feet above the level of 
the sea. Though sunshine^ sometimes sleeps in the valley 
below, storms and tempests rage above, or violent hurricanes of 
wind. At particular seasons, it is the resort of naturalists and 
botanists, and inexhaustible is the collection made by them of 
plants and flowers. A small stream courses its way from the 
lake upon the summit, from rock to rock forming a succession 
of cascades, and empties itself into the Doire. 

I descended the mountains with great rapidity in an open, 
chaise. The flowers by the way side, in increased luxuriance ; 
the reddened sky in the far heavcDS, denoted that Italy was 
before me. To me, inexpressible were the associations con- 
nected with the name. [It was the land of poetry and song, and 
filled with the storied recollections of antiquity. As a 
French traveler, my companion during my journey had said 
at Point Beauvoison ; it was the cemetery of Frenchmen, and 
I could almost see the shades of the soldiers fallen in battle, at 
Marengo flitting before my vision. 

I arrived at Suze, or Segasium, in the Latin language, at fiv« 
o'clock in the afternoon. It is just at the foot of Mount Cenis. 
I passed under a gate without the town, containing the inscrip- 
tion, Augustus. It was founded by a Roman colony. In his 
honor is erected an arch of triumph, and the monument is still 



18 LETTERS. 

preserved in the Garden of the Governor. Its importance is 
derived from its bein^ a post-town, relays of horses being ob- 
tained there for crossmg the Alps, and for Kice. It contains a 
population of two thousand souls, and is remarkable for its beauti 
fill green marble, which is obtained at a neighboring village. 
I started in the morning with the gens d'armes, and at the 
breakfast hour was at Kivoli, ten miles from Turin, the capital 
of Piedmont. 

Rivoli is a small town, but very agreeable, and contains about 
six thonsand inhabitants. It was at one time the residence of 
the former sovereigns of Sardinia. It was the cradle of that 
pious devotee of the Catholic faith, Emanuel I., and the re- 
nowned military general, Victor Amedee, who wept tears of an- 
guish and repentance over his own abdicati«ii, there found soli- 
tude and a prison. A beautiful chateau ornaments it, placed 
upon the summit of the hill. It is noted also for many excel- 
lent manufactories of woolen cloths, and ribbons. There stands 
the pyramids indicating 'one of the extremities of the triangle 
which serves as the sun to Baccaria to trace the meridian of 
Turin. Here terminates the great plain of Lombardy to which 
the historians of the middle age have given the name of " Valle 
Aurea.'* 

The government of Sardinia is a monarchical one. It is 
composed of the Duchy of Savoy, Montferrat, Genoa, the realm 
of Sardinia, the island of Asinara,. and the principality of 
Monaco. The principal officers of state are members of the 
ro3'al council, who are consulted upon important subjects. It 
has an army of fifty thousand soldiers, of which thirty thous- 
and are always kept in active service. 

Its productions chiefly are silk, wine, oil, coral and marble. 
Its commerce is carried on in the ships of all nations, princi- 
pally the carrying trade by the English and South American 
governments. The two products of JSTorth America cotton and 
tobacco find their way there through the port of Genoa in in- 
creased quantities every year. 

Although Sardinia is a Monarchy, much of the representative 
and legaf power is entrusted to the regularly elected deputies 
of the people. The Stramenti, or select men, are clothed with 
the principal authonty in the island of Sardinia. In legal mat- 
ters of importance at Genoa a complaint is made in the form of 
a libel, before a Podesta or magistrate and from his decision an 



LETTERS. 19 

appeal can be made to the Senate of Genoa, a body of men still 
in existence and who exercise considerable power. One of the 
badges of Sovereignty in the Representive of a government is 
the granting of Exequaturs to the agents and consuls of For- 
eign Governments, which is a legal permission for them to con- 
duct business or perform the duties of their office. This act of 
sovereign or delegated power is conferred upon the President of 
the Senate of Genoa, and the application for the exequatur by 
the consular agent raust be made immediately to the President 
of the Senate. 

I arrived at Turin the same day, thus completing a journey 
from Lyons in 62 hours. Turin, called formerly Taurasia, was 
founded by a colony of Ligurians bearing the name of Taurrini, 
which is supposed to be derived from their carrying a standard 
with the picture of a Bull. The world has the assertion of 
PKny, that Turin is the most ancient city of Liguria. It is an 
incontestable fact, that it was to some extent populated when 
Hannibal marched his victorious legions across the Alps. Julius 
Cesar marching against the Gauls left at Turin a corps in reserve 
which received the name of " Julia Colonia". Augustus chang- 
ed the name to " Augusta Taurinorum"; it subsequently became 
the prey of the hordes of barbarians who overrun the whole of 
Italy. In the mean time, the Lombards, embellished it anew, 
and placed it in a brilliant and peaceful state and it became the 
capital of one of the Duchy's which composed the realm of 
Lombardy. One of the Dukes, Agilalfo, showered upon it his 
favours, and founded the Church of St. Jean the Baptist, which 
is to this day, the Cathedral. Charlemagne established (then 
the Marquis of Suze) and invested him with the supreme po- 
litical control over the city of Turin. This species of dictatorial 
power was prolonged to the year 1032, when Ulric Manfred ths 
last member of the distinguished family of Suze, died leaving 
it as an inheritance to the House of Savoy. During the vicissi- 
tudes of innumerable wars, Turin has been protected, adorned 
and beautified by the descendants of that illustrious family. 

The approach to Turin, from the road by Suze, is most inter- 
esting and beautiful. First is seen faintly in the dista nee, the 
Superga, some four miles beyond tho city. It rises to view 
like a panorama just touched by the pencil, combining and 
blending both a church and burying-place for the dead ; for it 
is the cemetery of the royal family, decorated with high, mag- 



20 LETTERS. 

nificent columns of marble, and placed upon an eminence, it is 
the iirst and most conspicuous object that attracts your notice. 
Tlie road for miles is through elms, planted on both sides, and 
preserved with the greatest care. 

You pass the Place d'Armes, where are held the weekly re- 
views of soldiers. You hear the notes of music, and the start- 
ling airs of a military town. 

There the two gens-d'armes who accompanied me from Suze 
alighted, and put on their belt sword, and taking their muskets 
and bayonets, disappeared in the cit}^ The city of Turin con- 
tains one hundred and thirt}- thousand inhabitants. It is built 
at the confluence of the Po and Doria. A beautiful amphithea- 
tre of hills surrounds it covered with cottages and villas. It is 
watered with running streams, which preserves the health of 
the inliabitants, and keeps it in the utmost cleanliness. The 
public palaces are embellished with costly statues, and galleries 
of the richec^t paintings. 

The most delightful promenade is to the Valentin', the 
Botanical Garden is about ten acres in extent, and surrounded 
with a high gate and wall, built of stone and brick, ten feet in 
height. ]Sear it stands the beautiful palace, built by Catherine, 
of France, in which takes place the annual exhibition of the 
fine arts. 

In examining the Chef (Touvres of the arts, which Turin fur- 
nishes, I was lost in admiration at the dark marble chapel of 
St. Suaire. The graceful representations of the sculptor upon 
the royal palace, and the elegant facades and portico of the Rue 
de Po, terminating in a bridge of stone, and forming the most 
beautiful street in the whole of Europe. 

In addition to the royal academies of agriculture and the fine 
arts, and the societies favorable to music and dramatic litera- 
ture, the public establishments of instruction, and universities, 
demand much attention. The library contains sixty thousand 
volumes, and many precious manuscripts. Tliere is preserved, 
among other antiquities, the funeral oration pronounced at Ar- 
qua, over the reniains of Petrarch, the immortal poet The 
world is indebted to a collector of books, by the name of Gar- 
reva for this invaluable discovery. It possesses also a cabinet 
of medals and anatomy, and a museum of Egyptian relics. 
Among these objects of antiquarian research are the celebrated 
table of Isaac, and altar of Memmius, dedicated to Jupiter; 



LETTERS. 21 

handsome trophies of war, and Etruscan inscriptions; one hun- 
dred and seyenty Hebrew manuscripts ; the commentary of- 
Esdras, and [an alcoran of extraordinary labor in the execu- 
tion ; a multitude of vases and lamps, and a large quantity of 
papyrus, of which the importance has been recently demon- 
strated by the young ChampoUion, a profound philosopher, and 
a writer of great elegance, whose recent death has been an ir- 
reparable loss to science. 

Italy is still emulous of the reputation of her learned and 
scientific men. Proud of the great and imperishable names in 
her literature, Dante, Tasso, Petrarch, and Machiavelli, she seeks 
to emblazon the reputation of Alfieri, distinguished for his 
finely conceived tragedies, and Botta, noted for his excellent 
history. Her congress of learned and scientific men meet annu- 
ally caressed by princes and nobles. 

Note. — One was held at Florence, in 1841, during my residence in Italy. 
Mr. Edward Everett, Mr. J. Ombrosi, U. S. Consul, ; Mr. Grenough, the 
sculptor ; Mr. Powers, the celebrated American artist, were invited" to take 
seats in the convention. The learned and scientific men of other nations 
were invited to participate in their festivities. Thes were ffeasted by the 
Grand Duke, in the Gardens of the BoboK, and presented with an honorary 
membershin and medal. 






VITELL I 



A T R A S S D Y 



PREFACE TO THE TRAGEDY OF 

VITELLI. 



Earth is full of poetry, nature in her gorgeous and glorious 
attire, her rocky cliffs and battlemented steeps, her mighty ca- 
taracts " notching their centuries in the eternal rocks," the roll- 
ing and swelling tides sounding on their " ocean floor," the 
seasons in their varied round, all are full of poetry. It embraces 
everything in the worlds of matter and of mind. It portrays 
alike the dark and the terrible, the bright and the gentle feelings 
of our nature, the bitterness of despair, the haggardness of woe, 
malice with her fiendish countenance, revenge with his dagger 
and bowl, the bright eye and rosy lip of joy, the wan and 
wasted form of grief; these are its fit subjects. 

From what slender materials can the poet erect a magnificent 
edifice! From the rude thoughts of other men he can rear 
fabrics of matchless glory aud beauty. The skeleton becomes 
in his hands the living body, blooming with health, and ani^ 
mated with vigor. 

But poetry derives its most fascinating colors from the images 
of loveliness that exist in r^al life. What can be a more de- 
lightful theme for the poet, than the sweetness and innocence 
of infancy, or the gayer dreams and brighter hopes of youth. 
Such themes excite endearing recollections, like the music of, 
some sweet and heart-touching song, they recall to mind the 
now silent voices of love and friendship. They carry us back 
in our fancy to the green pastures, the still waters, and the 
bright dreams of our childhood 



26 PREFACE. 

Ever}^ one knows how innocent And fair those dreams are — 
every one has felt their pleasing influence, and even at the 
grave amid the withered affections of life, we love often and 
fondly to cherish and recall them. 

What can raise such exquisite sensations in the breast as that 
poetry which depicts the grace and gentleness of woman — her 
devotion and warmth of affection which adversity cannot 
dampen or chill. Poetry like this can never fail to please, for 
it finds in every bosom a corresponding chord. It enchants the 
soul away from the sordidness and dust of earth, and lulls it 
into delicious repose. It is like the cool fountain amid the 
burning and sandy deserts of life, where the weary traveller 
loves to drink and repose in calm forgetfulness. 

This species of poetry is of modern conception, and originates 
from the influence of the female character. Woman in all her 
relative situations in life exerts an influence upon the commu- 
nity. As a daughter she waits at the couch of the sick, soothes 
the feverish and convulsive bed of pain, and offers the last cup 
of consolation to the dying. As a lover she gives tone and ele- 
vation to the moral character of the age, by deciding whether 
virtue or vice shall be a passport to her society. But in no 
situation does she exert such an influence as in that of a mother. 
At the tender season of youth, she moulds the character, she in- 
stills those moral principles which are cherished with enthu- 
siasm and ardor. Rarely are they forgotten. Between mother 
and son as years progress they are the links of affection, becom- 
ing brighter and brighter every day as the chain of life runs 
on. She waters and nurtures the first buds of genius. Under 
her watchful eye the genus of intellect expand and ripen with 
maturity. She enkindles in the bosom of youth that burning 
desire for distinction, which like the holy fire of the Romans, is 
never extiogiaished, and which is undimmed by the frosts of 
age. With what glowing language does she spread before his 
youthful fancy, the inviting prospect 

"Where the laurel highest waves 
Her branch of endless green." 

She cheers him onward witli her smile, in the race of manly 
and honorable exertion, until fame crowns him with her wreath 
and wealth rolls him in her car. 



PREFACE. 27 

Woman too by her station is eminently calculated to exert a 
favorable influence upon society. She is not engaged in the 
ambitious schemes of the statesman, or in the more hardy en- 
terprises of the conquerer. Her proper station and most grace- 
ful position is to be surrounded by her children. 

There you will find the virtuous matron with the book of 
knowledge and virtue in one hand, and her little child in the 
other. And in this comparatively lonely sphere, she may con- 
fer a greater benefit upon society than Kapaleon robed in splen- 
dor, at the zenith of his power. Her influence is not confined ; 
she can send her thoughts abroad, and diffuse elsewhere her 
cheering influence. Who can estimate the mighty effects of one 
such mind upon society ? Who can measure the amount of 
moral good ? 

Woman is now, too, a competitor for the garland of poetry ; 
and though her lyre resounds not the deep-toned notes of the 
bards of olden time, yet its strains are purer, and more in ac- 
cordance with her own nature. Who, then, will say that wo- 
man has no part in forming the character of an age ? Who can 
say that she does not exert an overwhelming influence ? Poetry 
is but the mirror in which is reflected the thoughts and spirit of 
the age. From the reciprocal nature of the age, and its litera- 
ture, how vast, then, the influence of woman, in forming and 
elevating the spirit of poetry ! Woman anciently did not pos- 
sess her present power. It was circumscribed and limited by 
her ignorance, and the trammels of society. Her rank was 
then low and degrading. The Grecians and Eomans decorated 
the brows of genius and patriotism with the oaken and laurel 
crown, but they held out no myrtle wreath as a prize for domes- 
tic virtues. At the close of the eleventh century, she threw oft' 
the shackles which ignorance and a barbarous tyranny had im- 
posed upon her. The institution of chivalry, whatever may 
have been its general effects, was eminently useful in ameliora- 
ting the condition of woman. 

Before that period, she was considered more as a slave or 
prized like a flower for its beauty and sweetness, soon, however, 
thrown aside, when the bloom and the fragrance were gone. 
She was the bright exhalation of the morning, quickly passing 
away and forgotten. 

From the reverence and kindness with which woman was 
subsequently treated, we of the present day are indebted for 



28 PREFACE. 

the courtesy of manners, that elegant drapery of chivalry, 
"which still robes our social life. 

The effects of chivalry upon the age ivas almost talismanic. 
It awakened a new life, and a youth of feeling ; refinement 
and grace of manners were the immediate consequences. By 
mingling and associating in the company of females, the men 
of that age threw o& the roughness and harshness of their 
character. The knight was cliaTrmed into gentleness and soft- 
ness of manners, and the air of mildness which was diffused, 
has never died away. Tlien it w^as that the warlike tourna- 
ment w^as held, w^here the feat of valor drew down the ap- 
plause of the fairest dames. Where the bright eye was the 
motive and reward of h.eroic achievement, and where the silk- 
en scarf and token-ring, were prized more than a monarch's 
favor. 

The striking and peculiar features of the age had a cor- 
responding effect upon the poetry. Its development was in 
perfect harmony with the spirit of the age. The hand that 
brandished the lance, tuned the lyre. Then sang the minstrel 
the rewards of faithful love, wandering from castle to castle, 
ever welcomed with the smiles of the lady mistress.^ Then 
composed and sung, the Troubadour, his lays of romantic affec- 
tion to his courtly'and galhmt audience. The literary produc- 
tions of that period were characterized for their sweetness and 
tenderness of sentiment. New ideas and new traits of char- 
a3ter had been discovered by female intercourse, and the effect 
Tvas that her portraiture should be more accurately and per- 
fectly delineated, and with nicer shades and truer colors. The 
softness of manners, and delicate sensibility which woman had 
transmitted to the age, the age transmitted to poetry. 

The writings of the Grecians and Romans are often stained 
■with a mixture of violent and degrading passions. Tliis was 
the fault of the age rather than the writer. IIow differently 
would Yirgil have represented the character of Dido, had he 
lived centuries since. The picture would liave been more pure, 
delicate and exquisite. Instead of revelling in the excess of 
her passions, she would have whispered her love in the moon- 
lit garden, beneath bowers fragrant with rosamary and honey- 
suckle, or let 

\ " Concealment, like a worm in the bud. 

Feed on her damask cheek.'" 



PREFACE. 29 

And the pictures which Catullus has drawn of love, had he 
been born in another age, instead of bringing the blush to the 
cheek of modesty, would have lit up a glow of pure and gen- 
erous feelings in the heart of beauty. 

How striking the contrast between ancient and modern po- 
etry, in this respect! How different the spirit breathing 
throughout them ! How infinitely purer, better, and more 
elevated the tone of feeling and morals in the latter than in 
the former I 

"Who does not discover in the writings of modern poets, a 
more refined delicacy, greater purity^ of thought and express- 
ion, than was exhibited even in the age of Elizabeth. 

How many household and endearing scenes have been 
added ! What pictures of domestic grace and purity, in the 
writings of Campbell, "Wordsworth and Coleridge ! 

"Wo^iian has become an object of greater reverence and re- 
verence and respect ; she exerts a deeper and more beneficial 
influence upon the age, and the spirit and thoughts of the age 
are reflected back in its poetry. 

"Woman also exerts a direct influence upon the poetry of an 
age, when she wakes the poets lyre, when she refines and 
prompts the efi*orts of genius. It is to the direct influence of 
woman upon individual character, that the world is indebted 
for the beautiful exhibitions of genius in Italian literature, 
a literature whose first accents were those of love and min- 
strelsy, Dante, Petrarch and Tasso, from out the chaos of 
Roman corruption and barbaric phantasies, first arranged its 
scattered materials in order, and stamped upon it the impress 
of genius. Their minds, awakened by love, threw out flashes 
of song, volcanic as the land of their birth. 

The attachment of Dante to Beatrice, contributed essen- 
tially to the happy development of this feeling, and was asso- 
ciated with all his noblest sentiments, and most elevated 
thoughts. 

Who is not familiar with the Laura of Petrarch ? . Indeed, 
upon a highly imaginative and sensitive being, like a poet, 
how deep and permanent must be the passion of love, and 
how wonderful its effect in enkindling the fire of genius ! As 
regards the poetic effect, it is of little consequence whether 
the object of his attachment requited his love or not. Proba- 
bly his strain would be more tender — more hallowed and 



30 PREFACE. 

touching, if lie sung of hopeless passion, and if the star of 
promise had never gleamed in brightness upon his soul. 

Shelly, in all the beautiful creations of his fancy, has ut- 
tered no sentiment more true than that 

'' Most wretched men 
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, 
They learn in suffering what they teach in song." 

How far superior, in tenderness of sentiment and qliivalric 
devotion, are the -Vrritings of Tasso, to those of Homer and 
Yirgil ! What is there that rival his descriptions of Arminda 
exulting in the consciousness of her beauty and loveliness, the 
East bowing before the supremacy of her charms, and drink- 
ing in the intoxicating draught of love ? The ancient descrip- 
tions of female beauty, appear poor and frigid in comparison, 
Or what can be more fascinating than his descriptions of the 
beauty of Clorinda, and the love of Ermina. These are the 
passages that lead captive our hearts, and bind us to Tasso. 

" They are not shadows that produce a dream, 
I know they are eternal, for they are." 

How rich is our own language with authors distinguished 
for their tenderness of sentiment, and their pure and perfect 
delineations of female character. The chivalrous poem of 
Spencer, the Fairy Queen, breathes the very spirit of romance. 
In it, the poet has poured forth his own sentiments of deep 
and impassioned feeling, in "thoughts that breathe, and words 
that burn." 

In his manner, as well as in his language, he resembles the 
sweet and melodious poets of the olden time — ^possessing the 
tenderness of the Idyll, and the very spirit of the Trouba- 
dour. 

Who is there that cannot discover a difference between 
Shakspeare and Homer, in their pictures of softness and love ? 
How coarse appears the love of Agamemnon and Achilles, 
compared with that of Romeo and Othello ! Where do we 
find in Homer, those delicate and minute touches of passion 
which give additional sweetness to the pages of Shakspeare. 

What one of the ancients has pictured woman in every ya- 
riety of her character, like Shakspeare. In every situation of 
life has he described her — in joy and sorrow — in deep, long 



PREFACE. 81 

cherished love — in wedlock's holy chains — in maternal and 
sisterly affection — in madness, despair and guilt. He makes 
even their faults their yirtues, and their yery imperfections 
their most bewitching charms. In the beautiful language of 
another, lie introduces them to throw gleams of brightness, 
like stars in the tempest, in the wildest scenes of tragedy ! 

How affecting the story of Yiola ! How beautifully touch- 
ing the madness of Ophelia ! With what lively and vivid in- 
terest has he contrasted the music, the gayety, and the splen- 
dor of the mansion where Juliett reposes with her wretched- 
ness and seeming death ! 

To illustrate, in a still more trying position, the character 
of woman, has been the effort of the author of Vitelli. 

The Bianca which he has attempted to portray, will, in his 
opinion, be esteemed a true character, and a proper represen- 
tative of the age in which she lived. 

The thirteenth century was a wonderful age, so far as re- 
lates to the characters which it brought to light. 

The scenes of life were then changing with as much rapid- 
ity as pictures in the modern camera obscura, effected by 
every shade and refraction of light, that coul d possibly occur. 

That he has produced a striking, original, and well devel- 
oped character, is the hope of the author ; and upon that 
subject, he appeals to the enlightened judgment of the lovers 
of dramatic literature of the nineteenth century, for an impar- 
tial decision. 

May 9, 1854. 



THE VITELLl, 



A TRAGEDY IN FIYE ACTS, 



Dramatis Per sorter, 

r!osMO De Vitelli. 

GuiDO, his Son. 

Otho, a Moor, Foster-Son of Vitelli. 

CosiMO, General in the Florentine Forces, 

Orsino, disguised Brother of Cosimo. 

Duke of Florence. 

gonsalyo, ) 

MoLiNi, >• Senators of Florence, 

Gheraldi. ) 

Barabbas, a Jew. 

TiBERIO. 

BiANCA, Daughter of old Vitelli. 
Senators, Guards, Attendants, dec. 

Scene, Florence-^Time, Thirteenth Century. 



\r 



vrxELLi. 33 



ACT I 



. Scene I. — A Street in Florence. 

Barabbas. — Ha ! ha ! by my soul, lias not this worked well I 
All my moneys turned to account. Then, the ten thousand 
ducats from the mad spendthrift ; then, my argosies safe from 
India ; and then my close mortgage on the old A^itelli. Ha ! 
ha ! ha ! Barabbas, thou hast done well — most excellently 
well. Soon, yes, soon, the Yitelli palace will be mine, and 
then his mirth will have an end. Cursed be my race, if I 
forego one doit, for I hate him and his haughty house. Oh ! it 
does my old heart good ; makes me young to have this gay 
nobility fawn upon me. " Sweet Barabbas ! kind, gentle Bar- 
abbas, wilt thou lend me some ducats ?" This very day did 
Guido, the old Vitelli's son, beseech me to lend him moneys, 
that he might squander in his develish debauchery. I told 
him '' ISTay, nay, for Barabbas lends for surety, and thou hast 
none, poor, poor Christian dog — none so poor in Florence ;" 
and he was wroth, and bearded me in the public mart, then 
left me in an angry mood, muttering in his teeth vile epithets 
of Jew, and low-born wretch ! But stay, I must to the Duke, 
(his Dukedom is lean,) then haste to the old Yitelli Palace to 
claim my interest on the mortgage. [Passing oiU. 

Enter Bianca. 

Bianca. Stay, stay, sweet sir ! Canst thou tell 
Whether the Senate have decided upon 
Cosimo's fate ? _ 

Barabbas. Among the populace 
The cry just rose that he is banished 
For treason. 

[Aside.'] A lady beauteous, indeed. 

Ko jewel in our ancient Synagogue 
More brightly shines ! 
' Bianca. Banished, it cannot be ! 



34 VITELLI. 

His lofty and generous disposition, 

His proud soul, high reaching to the heavens, 

Will surely break. Crushed, indeed, will be 

His fortunes, and a capacious spirit, 

That meets and overcomes all obstacles, 

Fall for a moment, like a shooting, star 

To the ground. Florence, city of flowers. 

Whose rich mantling grapes hang in deep clusters 

On thy hills, well dost thou deserve the curse 

For thus dishonoring thy protector. 

Heardst thou naught of pardon ? Beats not the heart 

Amid the populace ; rich artizans, 

In gold and precious stones, whose hard labor 

Bedecks in artificial splendor, 

Her massive bridge, in dark revenge and hate. 

Barahhas. Lady, I traffic not with them to-day— 
They bear my tribe a grudge. Men of iron frames, 
Souls courageous, in embattled array, 
Like soldiers hot from fight, throng the crowded streets 
With wild, passionate eyes, quivering lips, 
And hearts filled with scorn. 

Bianca. 'Twill all be vain, 
I fear ; although thou hast tolled the knell 
Of all my hopes, receive my richest thanks. 

Barahhas. A heavenly benison upon thee, 
Fair lady, I trust will speedily light. 



ACT I. 

Scene 11. — An Apartment in the Vitelli Palace. 

Vitelll Now hath tyrannous hate compassed its ends, 
Cosimo's banished ! in high mood he chafes. 
And like an imperial lion quails 
Beneath the goading lancer. The hunter's spear 
Quivers in his side — ensnared in his toil, 
He burns with secret, unavailing ire. ^ 
His brother, long driven a pilgrim knight 



VITBLLI. 35 

Into the Holy Land — ^the will that held 

In deep spell the multitude is broken ; 

Thie tree that once shed its poisonous blight 

Upon our ancient house, is withered ; 

The smouldering embers of a dark feud, 

Revived by recent wrongs, foul aspersions, 

An aspiration, vain as impotent, 

Unto my daughter's hand, with scorn repelled, 

I sought his banishment. For who would stain 

A time-honored line with baser blood ? 

Bnter Guido. 

Guido. My father, hold you the banquet this night ? 

Vit We will have a revel — the glare of torches, 
Kot fitful, but clear, shall light up the hall, 
Keflecting the proud deeds of ancestors. 
The pale dead, from off the tapestried walls, 
Shall look smilingly forth. In rich accord 
Shall speak the harp and the softer guitar, 
The tabret and the viol there will lend 
The note responsive. 

Guido, One will, with his eye 
Of dark, malicious meaning, sadly damp 
Its joyousnesss. 

Vit Whom mean you ? 
Guido. The Jew, Barabbas. 

Vit. Guido, let him not be there. 
The sad omen, and ill-fated harbinger 
Of ill ; the poisoner of all my joys ; 
His very presence makes the warm blood rush 
Wildly to my heart in angry currents. 
In the grim malice of his fiendish eye, 
I read the truth, " Vitelli, thou art mine ; 
Thy robes, brought from the far and wondrous east. 
Thy jewels of costly art and workmanship, 
Thy tapestries, paintings, and thy palace. 
It is mine." Sooner than this, great Heaven 
Send quick lightning, earth its deadly vapors, 
And strike him with your terrible vengeance, [geance. 

Guido. Rather blast him with your own quick ven- 
Rather strike him dead with thy own sharp steel. 



36 VITELLI. 

Tliis day lie bearded me in the full mart, 

With foul words. I would have dashed him down 

To the earth, and trampled him like a worm. 

But in a crowded street in open day, 

'Twas perilous. 

Vit You would not stain your hands, 
In which runs the blood of princes, with a dog ? [taunts 

Guido. What would you ? shall we bear his jibes and 
Suffer the stainless honor of our race, 
To be blown about by a filthy mouth ? 
Whence came his usurous bonds, but from wars, 
Not of the state, but of the Yitelli ? 
From gorgeous banquetings for Florence, 
That would throw eternal honor around 
A princely name. Shall we crouch to the power 
Of an insolent wretch — a base Jewish dog ? 
Shall we, who have smiled at all dangers, 
Braved even frowning death in battle, 
To sustain the greatness, heraldic pomp, 
And ancestral pride of a noble house, 
In silence see the burning torch applied. 
That shall leave it blackness and ashes ? No ! 
'Tis the voice of honor, speaking alike 
In the beggar and the crowned prince. No, no ! 
Is answered by the noble dead, speaking 
From out their quiet graves ! 

Vit Why did you 
Darken, with your evil foreboding thoughts, 
My joyous emotions. I exulted 
This day proudly over my enemies. 
And now I feel debased like a slave. 
What would ye? what can we ? 

Guido. The Jew, Barabbas, must die ! We must be 
His murderers, or the Vitelli name, 
Changed to a mockery and by-word, 
And we, from gay, luxurious revelers. 
Become beggars. A beggar ! how like you 
That name? How beautifully would poverty 
Sit upon the pale brow of ^'our daughter. 
Steeping her maiden prime in bitter tears. 

Vit. Why these vengeful words ? Heaven, is there no, 



* VITELU. 37 

Refuge but to bloodshed and darker crime. 

I tell you I cannot — cannot murder 

An old, weak defenceless man with white lips 

And hoary hair! I could never do it. 

Murder ! what a crime ! All others whisper 

But in the stilly night, murder speaks out 

In the broad open day, at full noon, 

And tinges with horrid blackness the heavens. 

Guido, Then live a few short days a coward^s life — 
Your own eyes will see the sun of our race 
Sink forever. Dark and fearful will be 
Its last setting, not quenched suddenly, 
In a flood of light, but slow fading 
Into black and ruinous clouds. Already 
I see it— already I hear the jibes 
Of that sworn enemy, old Molini. 
I hear that monkish priest, who nightly counts 
His beads, and oft mumbles at his prayers, 
Cry out. Such is the curse of riot, waste, 
And sumptuous living ; your dear daughter. 
Whose smile was once wooed by gay cavaliers, 
I see eating the bitter bread of want, 
And pining in sad, lonely poverty. 
Fading to her tomb in melancholy. 
Like the drooping flower of early spring. 
I see yourself with moody brow, curled lip, 
The sport of your proud enemies, your head 
Bowed to the curses, revilings and scoffs 
Of the people. Can you bear this ? 

Vit. Bear this, 
Boy ! Do you know who I am, and ask this ? 
Bear this ? thou art my son, or the taunt would not 
Pass unheeded. Boy, he shall die. 

Guido. We must be 
Wary, quick. The sun that shines forth his beams 
In dim and garish light through yon window, 
Must be his last. To-night hold the banquet. 
We will wash in goblets of sparkling wine, 
His base blood off our hands forever. 



3g VITELLI. 

Act 1. — Scene III. 
Balcony of the VitelU Palace. 
Otho. Hear me, I pray thee, reverse thy decree, 
Guido. jS^o more, begone I 
Otho. Ennobled as thou art, 
.\nd holding full sway in most grave debate. 
Counsellor and Senator of Florence 
Still let compassion move thee to noble acts. 
Although it disturb the poise of justice, 
I pray thee pardon Cosimo. 

Guido. Enough! . ;i- .^„.,o^ 

What villain hath set thee on m rude discouise 
To plead for that vile catiff ? 

Otho. Have patience. 
There is not a wretch, or low base-born slave. 
But says, ^tis foul injustice. A\ hom, ot all 
In this'^ase, did prattling infancy iisp 
In childifh'glee? 'twas Cosimol ^^^.^f^^^^^}^ 
Did wrinkled, hoary age, with palsied hands. 
Last bless ? 'twas Cosimo ! Is this the pa> 
Hard earned of Valor's son? The reward 
Of patriotic ATorth, unparalleled 
In iirey antiquity's roll I Banishment 1 
Oh, Heaven I that you should accuser be. 
Once his compatriot, often m arras 1 
Did he not shed his blood in gushing streams, 
T ikP water airainst our foes, the Milanese ! 

J.]af iTetl Ihce, boy, he was sternly condemned 
As a fierce robber of the public goods, 
Spreading them a. bribes, vast iargess and lure. 
Among the populace, as a traitor. 
Blood-thirsty, plotting with wicked design.^, 
To undermine the state. 

Otho. Say it rather was , . , , t 

Thy malice an<i rash ambition which brooks ^ ^ 

\o rival, that banished him from Florence. lP^.?^f fj, 
Guid^ By Heaven I thou dost me wrong. ^N ho ap 
What haughty noble, with imperious air, 
Advances upon us ? 



VITELLI. 39 

Otlio. It k Gonsalvo, 
Most venerated among the Council 
Of Ten, wise in debate, his decisions 
All respect. See, he vents reproaches upon 
The crowd that jostles him as he draws near, 
And shrinks from their touch as from pollution. 

Guide. Go conduct him in. 
Innocent, guileless boy! 
He hath not learnt to disguise his hatred 
With a false smile, or with a Judas's kiss 
Betray a friend He knows not hypocrisy, 
Which, with fine gloss and gossamer web robes 
Society. Foolish boy ! thou thinkest 'twas 
To gratify my malice, I urged 
Cosimo's banishment. In my fancy, 
I see a richer, and a golden fruit 
AVaving upon bright Hesperian trees, 
The ducal crown, with reluctance yielded, 
Maddening in the gaze and mind of men, 
I struggle for, and by the glorious star 
Of my nobility, I swear to gain. 
Here comes Gonsalvo. 

Gonsalvo. Aj, howl, shriek your curses, 
You senseless coward — it will avail you nought. 
The sheeted dead shall burst their dark cerements, 
And start to life again, ere your welcome 
Shall reach the oracle of your power, 
The plebian Cosimo. 

Guido, Gonsalvo. 

Gon. Good day, my lord. 

Guido, Good day ; how fares it, well ? 

Gon. The world moves on with its accustomed pace. 

Guido. Do you not rejoice that the nodding pine, 
Which with its tall majestic branches threw forth 
A blackening, withering shade o'er us, 
Is plucked up by the roots, and trodden 
In the dust by dishonor's foot ? 

Gon. And what 
Shall be my reward for all my base arts ? 

Guido. Power and honor. 

Go7i. Gilded words, indeed ! 



40 VITELLI. 

I despise them. I tell you what, my lord, 
Alliauces of family, rank, degree, 
Most please the heart of proud, ambitious man. 
You have a sister ? 

Guido. One most cherished. 
Her beauty lends a dazzling spell to life. 

Gon. Proud in her mein. My heart has still yielded 
To the soft impression of love ; requite 
My services with her hand, and you cancel, 
In an honorable wa}', all ties and claims, 
And quick impose a debt of gratitude. 

Guido. (Aside.) This favors my secret wish. 
I regret 

To say, the Duke stands in your way. For years 
With base appliances has he sought her love, 
Por my father would wed with honest pride, 
His dauo-hter to a princely line. 

Gon. "The Duke 
Boasts no higher blood than mine. His stature, 
Complexion, lineage, bespeak him base. 
Thrown by a fostering kiKg, all unknown, 
A captain bold in wars, we little thank 
llobert of Naples for the gift. Much less 
Do we admire that one trained to arts 
Lascivious, with stolen honors, alike 
With men of rougher mould, should wear by force. 
The ducal title, long since conferred, 
In a moment of misguided zeal, upon 
A favorite of the hour who banished 
Faction, and protected Florence from wars, 
Long matured by foreign states. My love 
Shall be o^ratihed ; the ambition 
Of the Diike shall rusli to a fall ; his guilt 
Be expiated by his death. Poison, 
Treachery, or the assassin's steel shall lay 
Him in the wornn^ winding sheet. 

Guido. Ha! ha! 
Say est thou so, Gonsalvo? give me thy hand! 
Let it be done ; ni}^ sister, my fortune, 
My heart, my all is thine. 

Gon. Attest it, earth ! 



I 



yiTELLI. 41 

Let it be chronicled in the heaven 

Above, and wrote in characters of fire 

In hell ! he shall not live, I go to arm 

The retainers of my house, and the fiery 

Disbanded spirits within the city. 

See you yon grey castle without the gates, 

Whose massive battlemented towers frown, 

In awful, solitary grandeur — it is 

The trophied sepulchre of my fathers — 

There will I meet you. 

Act L — Scene IV. 
Without the City Walls, 

Cosimo. Banished from Florence ! now fortune hath 
Its most envenomed shaft, her brow hath frowned [winged 
E'en to its uttermost wrinkle 1 Banished ! 
For what ? Forsooth, the Vitelli's daughter 
Loved me ! forsooth, Guido and Gonsalvo 
Bore to me a fiend's hatred and malice, 
Because I won the populace's regard, 
Spreading my riches freely among them 
As the winds. Poor fools ! they would ensnare me 
By their subtle tricks. Ha ! ha ! I can see 
Through their thickly woven plots, pierce into 
Their dark machinations, as with the eye 
Of an angel ! What ! entrap the fierce lion 
With a spider's silken thread ! I can read 
Their thoughts as a lettered scroll. 

Methinks 
I hear now the speech pronounced, " Cosimo, 
The Senate banishes thee." The Council 
Of State ratifies their decision, and drives 
" Thee as a bloody traitor from the walls, 
Placing its sentence on the city's gates." 
Well, was not that wondrous well ? 

Let the curse * 
Light upon the senate ! Accursed be 
Florence, for a nurse of base treachery 
And hellish perfidy ! Now hear my oath — 



42 VITELLI. 

You shall reverse this decree and sentence 

With 3^our heart's blood. Gonsalvo, if you wed 

The old Vitelli's daughter, it shall be 

A horrid bridal. Death shall surely be 

Your mocking priest — the grave your marriage bed. 

Who goes there ? 

Enter Molini^ in Senator^ s robes, and Otho, 

31. and Otho. Friends ! 

Welcome ! Still bruits the city's 
Calumny that I am traitor ? Does still 
The roar of countless thousands confound me 
With the recreant and base ingrate ? Oh ! 
If either of you think me so, here 
Is my dagger, and here my bared breast ; take it 
And strike, as I would my brother, were he 
Basely to abandon the cause we love 
So well — our country's honor and defence. 

Otho andMolini. Shame ! Cosimo, put up your dagger, 
We come as friends in friendly mood. Your hand ! 

Cos. Here, take it ; yet remember it is wed 
To honor, and in triumph has always 
Borne the banner and the sword. 

J/. Whither wend 
Your steps. 

Cos. Unto the army, encamped 
By the silver Arno's side ; Banished thence, 
Is aught will remain in life to Cosimo, 
But Cosimo, and that nor cunning hate, 
Xor force, nor want, nor war, nor hell can take. 

Mo, Still look to thyself; do nothing rashly. 
In yon city you have friends who will seize 
The favored moment with the Senate 
To wipe this dishonor from your name 
For ever. {Exucnt.) 

Cos. Yes, I still have friends, and there is 
One — a gentle one — of a haughty race, 
A full blossoming scion. A warrior, 
A steel-clad man should not breathe her name. 
Not even to the whispering breezes. 






VITELLI. 43 



Enter in Disguise, a Pilgrim. 

Cos. Who 
Comes here ? whence and who art thou ? quick tell me I 
War-worn stranger. By Heaven ? thou wearest 
The knightly cross ! say, who art thou ? 

Pil. A man of woes. 

Cos. Confusion seizes me ; 'tis my brother's voice. 
Speak ! what do I see ? it is .my brother ! 
How camest thou here ? I thought thee warring 
In the wild, romantic regions of the East. 

Pil. Thy question 
Is strange, and most unseemly. Ask rather 
The lightnings, whose sulphurous folds did wrap 
Our sinking ship, or the fearfully 
Battling winds and waves, or let the shrill shriek 
Convulsive of many a stout heart. 
And mailed man, in his d3'ing agony 
Answer ; the fated bark that should have borne 
Me to the Holy Land, in the waters 
Sunk, and I alone am saved. 

Cos. Far better 
Did your corse rot in the pearly caverns 
Of the deep ; for mark me, brother, our name 
Is black witli branded infamy, become 
A loathing, a hissing and a by-word 
Of reproach. I am a banished traitor. 

Pil. Why do you torture me ? 'Tis false — false — 
i^one dare do it. 

Cos. There is one, the Yitelli. 

Pil. {Aside.) I would peril my soul with the foul iiend 
To be revenged. 

Cos. b^peak, my brotlier — speak! 
What horrid purpose is darkly flashing 
In your eye and brow? [pose, 

Pil. {2'hr owing down a Dagger,) Speak thou my pur- 
And fixed design. 

Cos. Ha ! he will murder 
Bianca in his passion. Stay thy wrath, 
My brother. 

Pil. Begone! away from me — hear 



44 yiTELLI. 

My resolved purpose : this stain shall be 
Washed from the escutcheon of our house 
In blood ; yet it shall be done secretly, 
As in the gloomy caverns of the deep, 
A serpent winds his sinuous folds, 
In death-like grasp around his victim. 



ACT II. 



Scene I. — Garden of the Vitelli Palace. 

With soft and gentle light the moon goes up, 
Encircling with starry radiance the night. 
The flowers and trees exhale sweet perfumes ; 
Mild and balmy odors float through the air, 
And ^India's pride, the flower-tree, wide spreads 
Its luxuriant branches and pale blue leaves. 
And Alls the senses with ravishing sweetness ; 
On all things there is the hush of peace, save 
In yon festal hall, where wit, that much plumes 
Itself upon its own knowledge and mirth. 
Sits with a drunken leer at wassail board, 
And smiles on many a stale jest and song 
Of xjoarse ribaldry. Oh, most like my own 
Sweet sky is thine fair Italy. ! Yet strange to say, 
To my passion-dimmed senses there is not 
The same rich colors, or gorgeous heaven, 
Xor the same music in the wandering stars, 
Xor the same melodies of Avind and wave. 
Hark ! hark ! how rich enchanting is that strain ! 
It is Bianca's lute, and those the notes, 
She was ever wont to gladly welcome 
Co&imo, before in moody passion, 
Her father and darli brother pursued 
Him with their scorn and bitter hate. 

* Melia Azedaracli. 



VITELLI. 

Enter Bianca. 

JBianca. This night 
So fair has drawn rae from my conch and rest. 
What, alone, Otho ! thus thou art ever 
Musing, sadly musing, and such a night 
As this, it wears a winning smile upon 
Its face. 

Ot/io. Lady, the caged bird never 
Will thrill so sweet a melody, or adorn 
Himself so fair as beneath his own sky, 
And his own rich blossoming groves. 

Bianca. Ever, 
Ever on thy story. Forever dwells 
Thy fancy on thy own dear father-land, 
As if it were nobler, better than this. 
Ever dwell thy thoughts on thy sweet mother, 
When you kissed her pale, cold brow in death, 
And my father's arm rescued thee 
From the sword that w^as red with thy mother's 
Blood. Put away these idle thoughts ; pluck up 
Courage. Thou wast a boy then, thou'rt a man 
iS^ow. Look out on nature ; does she not wear 
As fair a face, and as lovely a robe 
As thy own Spain ? Flowers of the brightest hue 
And fragrance are here ; the orange and. lime. 
And look, the wind doth stir their leaves, and fans 
The cheek with their fragrant breath. 

Otho. Yes, all is 
Beautiful and fragrant, yet 'tis not home. 
What is not centered in that one word, 
Home ; hopes, loves, all. Here are many flowers^ 
Yet none so sweet as those I once plucked 
On the hill side, in careless, wanton glee, 
And threw them into my mother's lap. I was 
Then a boy ; what am I now ? it is no 
Idle fancy ; a whining man ; shame on 
My manhood, dearest lady pardon me 
For the utterance of my secret thoughts, 
If manhood's strength can now be of service 
To thee, inform me, I pray, it shall be 



46 yiTELLI. 

Most speedily rendered. The times are 
Perilous, and innocence and beauty 
Need a safe-guard. The state is threatened 
By dark and angry spirits maturing 
Rebellion, and plotting its downfall. 

Bianca. I thank thee with a love-lorn maiden's heart. 
I need not now thy service. 

Otho. Xobler houses. 
Than the Yitelli are stained wdth crime. 
God grant that yours be free ! Good night ! 

Exuent Otho. 

Bianca. Good night ! 
Good night ! meet me here to-morrow eve ; yes, 
Too soon, I fear, I shall need some kind friend 
To aid me. Cosimo, who would have smiled 
Xt danger, is here no more to shelter 
Me from a brother's cruelty", revenge, 
And a senator's fierce love ; I know full 
Well, there are dark and hellish plots to work. 
I read it in my brother's thoughtful brow, 
And looks of deep and dark exultation. 
Oh ! my father, who Avill save thy grey hairs 
From guilt ? Proud and ambitious I know thee. 
Yet pure even with childish innocence. 
From the deep guilt that stains my brother's soul. ^ 
Ah ! now thou standst upon a gulf of fire, 
Adown which the fiends, in enticing forms 
Do lure thee. I alone will recue thee ! 

Act II. — Scene II. 

Vitelli Palace. 

Enter Orsini, Disguished as a 3fo7ik of the Order of Capuchins. 

Or. Thus clad in robes of bold deceit, I prowl, 
Like fell murderer or voracious wolf. 
In quest of prey. So often walks the earth, 
The fury Erinnys, embroiling men. 
Opportunity, thus do I enslave 
Myself to thee, that I might some day crown 
With success my deep love or wild revenge. 



I 



VITELLI. 

Beneath these rags of bold hypocrisy. 
Who could discern the proud aspirations 
Of a subtle intellect, the beatings 
Of a heart wed to fame ? Oh ! my brother ! 
Once so honored, yet now banished. 
Him thou thinkst so noble, plays the yillain ; 
Or like the lover in masquerade, sighs 
"With oily tongue for the heaven of love, 
He sees reflected in his mistress's eyes. 
My name concealed, scarce known to myself 
I consort with all, and bind even Guido, 
Bold, bloody, and revengeful as he is. 
.By many a secret, confessor priest, 
I breathe my vows in Bianca's ear. 

Unter Guido. 

Guido, Ha ! muttering prayers, telling thy beads, 
Priest ? 

Or. What would ye with me, my lord ; stand you 
In need of counsel ? 

Guido. Yes, ghostly advice. 
Yet seasoned richly with rare villainy. 
How like you the idea of a cardinal's 
Cap ? nay, perhaps, the papal robe and crown ? 

Or. I tell thee they are cheats, delusive bribes. 

Guido. Ha ! thou art in a godly strain to-day. 
Think you to pass it off on me ? ha ! monk, 
I know thee too well. Aye, change quick thy garb 
Of bold hypocrisy ; speak out the native man 
Freely ; have not my plans, my objects, designs 
Succeeded ? Cosimo's banished, he stood 
Between me and the dukedom. 

Or. The Duke, 
Is he not alive? 

Guido. Have I not a dagger ? 

Or. Lives there not one in the Vitelli palace. 
To whom your purposes are all unriddled ? 
He alone retains his spotless innocence, 
As pure as vestal snow. 

Guido. Whom do you mean ? 
Otho ? truly I fear him, yet I should not. 



47 



48 VriELLi. 

A melancholy and fantastic youth, 

So mild, so gentle, fair, a child might lead him ; 

Yet of such stern, unbending integrity 

As to defy all temptation ; lie, too, 

Must die, monk. He is the serj^ent in my eye. 

I cannot bear superiority 

In virtue. Mark my word, monk, he dies. 

You must first win my father's love from him; 

His mind must be filled with suspicion. 

Distrust. Recite to him the pride, glory 

Of our house ; tell him an orphan Moorish 

Boy, whom he has nourished tenderly, 

Like a flower, with the dews of mercy. 

Aspires unto his daughter's hand, and gains 

Her unsuspecting confidence, esteem. 

Tliat daughter around whose beauteous brows 

He vainly hopes to wreath the ducal crown ; 

For in the wild drunkenness of his pride. 

He would wed her, monk, to the Duke. Farewell ! 

Be careful and successful. You shall be 

Graced with a cardinal's cap. 

Or. Indeed ! 
A cardinal ! ha ! young duke — a would-be 
Duke ! There is a brighter charm that lures me 
Forward. It fills my sleej) with delicious dreams ; 
It wears a seraph's shape, a seraph's smile 
A seraph's waving robes ! Fair Bianca ! 
Thou art the star that mocks my eager vision 
With such enchanting shapes. Soon, yes soon shall 
The propitious fates enweave for us 
The starry wreath of love. 

Act II. — Scene III. — Vitelli Palace. 

Enter Yitelli, luith a Dagger. 

Vit. The joyous banquet guests are gone, smoothing 
Their wrinkled brows of care in gentle sleep. 
Oh ! would that I could sleep. Sleep ! I shall sleep 
No more. The Jew sleeps, dreaming his last dream 
Of gold and splendor. The rich, spicy wine 



VITELLI. 49 

The soothing drugs from Araby have drowned 
In dull oblivion, his Argus watchful senses. 
Kow, yes, now ! why do I hesitate ? why 
Does tear break the resolution and well 
Compacted fabric of my mind, bringing 
To light the nightly phantasm a that shake 
The timid from their purpose ? Tlie speedier 
The deed the better ; and such a deed ! 'twould 
Shame the damned fiend. To kill an old man 
So weak and harmless, 'tis most unnatural. 
Yet if I do not, I must stamp upon 
My daughter's pale snow-w4iite brow — poverty 
And blackening infamy. Come, then, ye 
Spirits of darkness that urge men to evil, 
Blot out meek penitence, soft compassion ; 
Stir up within my breast remorseless rage, 
That I may bathe my hands in his blood. 

ExuenL 

Enter Guido. 

Guido. Ha ! the banquet wine worked wondrous well 
Thrice I would have plucked the Jew by the throaty 
And thrice palsying fear shrank up my arm. 

Enter Vitelli, 

Would that he were here now. Ha ! is the deed 
Done ? is all over? 

Vit. Guido, I could not 
Kill him. His thin white hair — ^liis ashen lip, 
Curled as in prayer ; Oh ! I .could not 
Kill him. He looked so like my father 1 

Guido. What ! afraid of a sleepy Jew. Give me 
Tlie dagger. 

Vit Oh, let him live, for he will 
Curse thee as he dies I and a dead man's curse 
Would drag an angel down to hell. 

Guido. Talk not 
To me — he dies ! Are you a child ? Shake off 
Fear, that coward's curse. 

Vit. Whither, oh, whither 
Am lied ? 

5 



.50 vrxELLi. 



Act 1L— Scene 1Y. — Vitelli Palace. 

ViTELLi with Bond and Dagger. 

Vit Ha ! 'tis done ! I am free ; shout it heaven 
And hell ! I am free ! The Yitelli palace 
la my own again, and I am a man ! 
A man ! No ! no ! no ! a villain with blood 
Upon his hands is not a man. Ha 1 what is 
This ? 'Tis the rich Jew's bond upon our old 
Vitelli's palace ! I tore it fram his 
Heart's blood. How he st;reamed? 

What noise is that ? 
Ha ! the wind is sighing through the pines. No, 
No, 'tis the old man's groan. How piteously 
He gobs ! What if he be not dead ! what if 
His venecful spirit still walks the dreary earth, 
To toi '.ure his guiUy murderers ! Ha 1 
See ! 'tis there — away — mock me not ! have I been 
Only dreaming ? Has not the Jew been 
Here ? did he not east a look, cold, horrid, mockmg 
The eye with the painful glare of dull mortality I 
A look of au:ony and death. It froze 
The warm blood in my veins ! Ho ! art thou there, 
My son ? Runs in your veins, so delicately 
]\Iapped upon those fine sinewy limbs, 
My blood ? it was noble blood once — now, 'tis 
A villain's. 

auido. Why stand you here, my father, ^ 
Pale and trembling, with ghost-like fear ? 1 our hand 
Is bloody ; your poignard, too, is wet, 
As if reeking in the conflict and rage 
Of battle. The Jew will never disturb you 
More, with words of scorn, and eye bright with hre. 
Of secret malignity. He now sleeps 
In dull, unmeaning, dreamless sleep. I laid 
Him by the grey garden wall ; o'er his grave 
You may plant flowers, if you will, m the earth 
Newly dug, and nurture them with soft tears 
Of gentle^pity. You hear me not ! ah ! 
Your eye rolls wildly ! 



VITELLI. 61 

Vitelli catches him by the Throat. I have thee, now! 
Shall I kill thee ? I am a murderer, 
And it was you that made me so. 

Guido. Hold, hold! 
Do you not hear m,e, father ? do you not 
Know rae ? I am your son ! 

Vit. Liar ! My son ! 
My son was noble, generous, brave — kind, 
Even to a fallen foe ; had all traits 
Of human excellence. He would not have harmed 
A weak, unarmed old man. Your heart is 
Black with crimes ! 

Enter Biaxca. 

Bianca, Oh, father ! what would ye do t 
Vit. Her ! My daughters voice ! 
Bianca. Why look you so wildly ? 
What ails you, my father ? 

Vit. Drops on his Knees^ dropping Dagger and Bond speaks 

convulsively, 
Alas! alas! 

Whither would my phrenzied brain have driven 
Me ? Was it not enough thus to enact 
The bloody hero ; then again to play 
The assassin ? Must I lift my arm, 
Red with murder, against my child ? Come, 
Black night, and cover my black deeds I 
Open grave, and save me from the powers 
Ofheil! 

Guido. Curse on his womanish fears 
And madness ! 

Bianca. Talk not thus strangely. Father, 
Look up and smile as you are wont. 

Vit. Away ! 
Away, unhappy boy, I will be calm ! [Exit Guido. 

Who stands before you, girl ? 

Bianca. My own father ; 
My dearest father. * 

Vit. I was your father. 
But am no more ; I am a murderer — 



52 ViTELLf. 

A dark and midnight murderer 1 

Bianca. Oh, horror, horror ! I cannot beheve 
You. Why do you jest in such a manner '( 

Vit Call you this a jest ? it is a jest full 
Of meaning ! See you this dagger 1 see you 
These hands ! 

Bianca. Ha ! there's blood upon them ; do not 
Mock me, father ! whence is this blood ? 

Vit It flowed 
From an old man's veins, who would have wnmg 
The last drop of blood from you, could it have 
Been coined to gold. 

Bianca. The truth flashes upon 
Me 1 Merciful Heaven save me from rum ! 
My father a murderer ! Yes, another, 
Still another blow to crush me ! How could 
You do it? 

Vit. I thought I had a daughter ; 
To save her from poverty — tliat canker 
Which eats with a poisonous rust into 
Tiie soul— I slew him. His death alone was 
The remedy ; for he was more cruel 
And savage than the wildest beasts of prey. 
He would have stripped us of our honors, 
Our ahnost princely name and palace, 
And left us naked in our wretchedness, 
A mark for scorn and infamy. ^•^'^^• 

Bianca. Oh! then 
My dream was true, and the wild creations 
Of my imagination plainly shadow forth • 

The terrible reality. The phantom 
Of the hour, that disturbed my sleep is 
Kow revealed. I dreamt I sat within ^ ^ 

The midnight bower, where white, stoled virgins 
Robed me as a bride. The bridal song came ; 
It ro3e, rich, musical, like the melody 
Of breathed flutes o'er still waters ; the strain sunk, 
And I heard a sweet-toned voice pronounce— 
I Come, my bride ! it was Cosimo's voice. 

Then, methought, a red murderer stretched 
- His bare arm and plucked me back intq 



VITELLI. 53 

Mysterious darkness, in strange merriment. 

Oh, God ! the thought, it was my father ! Shut 

Out — shut out the horrid vision] it will 

Drive me mad. l^JSxit 

Enter Orsini. 

Or. The revel o'er, the maskers fill the streets. 
The splendor of the gayest banquet 
Of the year, has faded from the eye ; 
The lingering dancers' tread no more is heard 
Along the corridor and hall. 
Where massive silver mirrors, reflecting 
The flashing eyes and darkened hair, and love 
Of those gay lovers of the dance and mirth, 
Whose curls of serpentine and silvery braid, 
Enwreathed with bright cameos and stones, 
Throw back the images of beauty of a race 
That now are gone. The zone encircling 
A form so radiant and divine, of art 
So curious, as to appear like serpents 
Of solid silver made, for a moment 
Met my eye, as swiftly flew the shadow 
By. There is no brighter or more graceful 
Vision than that pursued by me, whose voice 
Just heard, awakes the echoes of the dawn ? 

Ha ! what is here ? a bloody dagger ; 

And here, 'tis as I thought ; the Jew's bond 

Upon the Vitelli palace. Here are 

Proofs — hellish proofs, of what I want, Now, 

Bianca, thou art mine ! I have within 

My graop thy father's life ; thy brother's life, 

Thy owii lite, or thy sweet love. Yes, if she 

Will noo bear the serpent's kiss, she shall feel 

His fan^s. 1 forgot the whining Otho. 

He look:^ upon me with a jealous eye ; 

1 must be on my guard ; I have a scheme 

That wlii crush him to the earth. 



54 VITELLI. 

ACT III. 

Scene I. — Vitelli Palace. 

[Vitelli Starts from his Couch. 
Vit. Ila ! again that scream of woe ; thrice hath it 
Sounded in my ear. Ah ! I do but dream. 
Hush ! Tvhy do I tremble ? What sudden fear 
Hath taken possession of my tortured soul? 
I heard his living scream — it was not half 
So terrible. Alas ! alas ! why should 
I be left to do this deed ? thus to shame 
My honored age with such a crime. Yes, 
For centuries, the Vitelli race have strove 
To win themselves a name and high renown, 
That should shine sun-like with unfading brightness, 
Far down the gulf of years; but none have stained 
It with blood, or wrote in burning characters 
Of guilt, themselves murderers. 

Enter Guido. 

Guido. Joy, my father ! 

Vit. Why should I be joyful ? has the Jew come 
To life again ? 

Guido. The Jew is dead : so be 
It to all who menace ill to our house, 
Or have the power to injure or destroy 
Its unsullied honor, or tarnish 
Its ancient splendor ! Why should we not be 
Joyfal ? Have we not concpiered? are we 
Not free, free, free ! Let the satyrs dance it ; 
The sweet birds sing it ! the musical winds 
Chime it ! We are free ! the Vitelli are 
Free ! 

Vit. Free ! would that it were so ! The thraUdom 
Cf unshackled guilt is the worst tyranny 



VITELLI. 

Over the mind. Worse than the bitterness 
Of death is that remorse, which long revels 
AVith unconsuming flame upon the heart. 
Better were the Jew alive than sink into 
The wretched things we are. 

Guido. Oh ! my father, 
Let not sorrow for the past, like the death-worm 
Banquet on present mirth. Are not my hands 
As red in blood as thine ? What dost thou fear ? 
Are not our enemies banished or dead ? 
The clouds that might have dimmed the brightness 
Of our ancestral name have passed away. 
Leaving it radiant in peerless beauty. 

Vit I fear not man ; but there are shapes to him 
That writhes with the quick and self-inflicting 
Pain of infam}^ far more appalling 
Than mortal man can bear. There is a hell 
Within me, and a hell around me. 
Oh! I would tear off my costly trappings, 
And wander forth, a lone houseless beggar, 
Rather than pass another such a night, 
So full of ugly shapes and bitter thoughts. 
Your sleep is a paradise to mine, hung 
Around with glittering dreams. 

Guido. They should not 
Disturb you. What are they but creations 
Of an o'er heated fancy, whose portraiture 
Sometimes saddens and sometimes affrights us? 
Fancy, that subtlest, sorcerous power 
Which can give to things, strange and improbable, 
Belief and breathing realitj^j and summon 
From their dread abyss, the wild spectral forms 
Of guilt a ad crime, to haunt us in our hours 
Of mirth and gayest revelry. 

Vit. I pray 
With devout and earnest prayer unto 
My God, that you may never be haunted 
With dreams so wild, so terrible, so full 
Of anguish and bitter agony. The hour 
Has not passed since, methought that she, 
My fairest Bianca, lay before me 



55 



56 VITELLI. 

In death. The roses that should have bloomed 
In fitting tiara around her hair ^ 
And beauteous brows, were all withered, 
\nd the worm was feeding upon her cheek. 
Colorless was the breast, and rotting bones 
Showed forth in horrid deformity. 
Tlien came an ao^ed form with hoary hair 
His robe dabbled in blood, and shrieked aloud, 
Cosmo de Yitelli ! thou art the cause 
Of this calamity; a blighting curse 
Shall wither thee and thy race— then laughed 
Like a fiend, 'twas the Jew's hiugh, then screamed 
In harsher dissonance his words, until 
The vaulted roof, with reverberating sound, 
Rolled them back upon my ear. 

G-uido. A very fool. 
To be mocked with such a false phantom ! 
Ha ! I forgot the monk, Orsini, is 
Without ; shall I admit him I 

Vit Admit him. 

Enter Orsini. 

Or, Good day, my lord! how now, thy lips are pale ! 
The holy saints grant no ill betide thee ! 

Vit I am not well. My life is but a shadow. 

Or. My lord, I have that which interests you. 
It is my duty — my sad duty to break 
It to you. I pray you be not offended. 

Vit Speak quick ; I must be gone. 

Or. My lord, you have 
A daughter. 

Vit. Aye, I have a daughter ; what 
Of her? 

Or. Whom you esteem the precious 
Jewel of your house ? 

Vit 'Tis even so. Go 

On. , . . 1 

Or So rich an adornment, a jewel 
So bright, should be set with other jewels, 
Bright°and richly chased, not idly cast 
Away. 



VITELLL 



57 



Vit. What mean you, priest ? Speak out ; 
Relieve thy mind. My daup^hter is not like 
A plaything of the hour, to be cast vilely [lock?, 

By. Ay^' monk, I will hang on her brightly burnished 
The jewelled tiara, and golden circlet, 
No vain and transitory image of power 
And splendor; the ducal coronet shall glitter 
On her white and pearly -brow. 

Or. Ha ! 

Vit. Why shake you 
Thus your head! what means this ominous silence — 
Is she dead ? 

07\ You think her beautiful ? 

Vit Yes 
And virtuous as a Roman virgin! 

Or. Beautiful and virtuous ? 

Vit. You dare not 
Say she is not. 

Or. You remember, my lord, 
The Moorish boy you captured in your wars, 
Then a simple bo}', now a man. 

Vit, Are 3'ou 
Mad, monk ? Your story, but a moment since, 
Was filled with my daughter's name. What hatli 
This Moor to do with my daughter ? 

Or. Thus much ; 
Look to them both. Lest he you think faithful, 
Be faithless ; and her you think virtuou.% 
Be leprous, spotted with guilt. 

Vit. B}^ Heaven ! 
Thou art a liar — a curst hypocrite ! 
*Tis false; false as the smoke of hell? 

Catches hold of him.^ Take 
Back those words, monk, or you shall die ! 

Or- Hear me, 
My lord ! kill me not in sudden wrath ; hear 
Me but for a moment, and if my w^ords 
Raise not suspicion in joxxv mind, I will 
Most willingly seal my story with an oath, 
0^ confirmation before the Council 



58 VITELLI. 

Of Ten. Aye, even with mv life. 

Vit. Wh'y should 
I not believe him, he liath ever been 
True ? Speak on, though jour words annihilate 
The hope that throbs in my bosom ! Speak quickly, 
I will be calm. 

Or. Last eve — you remember 
It, my lord — 'twas a rich and moonlit eve, 
And Beauty's spirit, throned in the air, 
And silver heavens, looked smilingly 
Forth. Amid the music of the lulling 
Fountains, and the soft breezes, I heard the notes 
Of a lover's lute, in sweet melody 
Dying, and straight the sound of voices. I drew 
Near in listening attitude. There were 
Words — the}^ were lovers words, full of passion, 
Breathing now all tenderness, now all lire, 
And vows of constanc}' in the world's scorn 
Or shame, and oaths by the chaste, modest moon, 
And bright glimmering stars. Then the adieu, 
Soft and trembling, came floating to my ear 
In silken tones — Love wilt thou meet me here 
To-morrow eve. It was Bianca's voice. 
By heaven, and all its hosts I swear it! 

Vit. Bianca, ha! ha! ha! 

Or. Her companion 
In guilt was the Moor. My lord, T pray thee, 
What is the matter ? So pale — there is no 
Color in your cheek. Call the otHcer 
Of the night. 

Vit. Bianca, ha ! Bianca, 
Oh ! my heart is bursting. Thou ever hadst thy 
Mother's eye and cheek, yet thy mother had 
The lily's unsullied purity. Slie is 
Dead, I must not talk of her. Oh ! would that 
Bianca were, and the melancholy 
Flowers of the spring fading on her grave. 
What! in tears — -playing the puling child 
When I should be a man. What ! ho ! within ! 
Antonio and Stephano, send me this 
Woman and tht^t Moorish whelp, 



I 



VITELLI. 59 

Steph. What woman. 
My lord ? 

Vit. She that was my daughter. Drag them 
Hitlier. 

Or. I must be gone ; Farewell, my lord. 

Stepilaxo Enters with Otho. 

Vit. How meek the villain looks ! 

Otho. What would you with me ? 

Vit. Out viper, I cannot look upon thee ! [frown ? 

Otho. Speak, my lord, what have I done? why this 
AVhy this bitter taunt ? why am I dragged 
Before you, like a slave ? [j^^^ 

Vit. What have you done ? oh, Heaven ! what have 
!N"ot done ? Ask the wolf who is gloating over 
His prey, the tender lamb, what he has done ; 
Or the vulture, who fattens on the corse 
Of the brave soldier, what he has done — there 
Are crimes, whose very thought is madness, which 
Make tlie brain quiver with mute agony. [knees, 

Otho. Crimes ! what crimes ? Oh, my lord I here, on my 
Before high heaven, I swear this heart is 
Pure ; these hands are free from anything like 
Injury to thee. Oh ! no, no, I have 
And would peril my life for thee ; you well 
Remember the seige of Milan ; you were 
Wounded with a venomed shaft, then I cooled 
Your hot and feverish brow, and watched 
Your tented bed with a brother's care. Let 
IS'ot dissimulation, or cold subtle malice, 
Blacken my name with venomous glosses. 
I pray thee tell me what is my offence. 

Vit. Must I tell o'er my wrongs ? Oh ! I cannot, 
'Tis too much for a father's anxious heart ; 
It is a tale of dark ingratitude. 
Viperous sin ! how you have crept slily 
Into her bosom — Bianca's bosom. 
Poisoning the chaste roses once blooming there, 
Tainting her spotless name with hateful sin. 

Otho. It is a lie ! a black lie ! vast as hell. 



60 VITELLI. 

The Tiolet — the modest violet, 

]s not lialf so pure. True, I bear her love, 

The |)ui*e devotion of a fond brother, 

As unsullied with passion as tlie lie 

That binds celestial minds. I kissed with her 

The tears from her mother's cheeky when she lay 

Cold, yet beautiful, in shrouded death, and swore 

To guard her with deep, changeless affection. 

Lo, here she comes, bedecked like Flora, 

From out the orient, with dewy pearL 

Did ever sculptor, painter, or poet. 

Frame half so lovely a picture. 

Vit. Come here, 
Bianca! what a piece of workmanship! 
So beautiful, yet so vile. Ila ! listen 
Tome; — I have a tale for thee : An oak, 
Grew an i blossomed, and j.T;t forth its branches. 
Goodly and fair. The wild winter sighed 
Itself aAvay, and still they grew ; then came 
A storm, a cruel, harsh, cold, blig hting storm ; 
Tht'V withered, one by one, moal '^red, 
Died ; still two were left, one was btJiutiful, 
And richly Jiung its blossoms forth — a worm, 
A canker Avorm, riots and feeds upon 
Those fragrant blossoms, even now blasts them 
AVith its poisonous breath. Shall I crush it ? 

Bianca. What mean you, m}' father, with this language! 
Are you the oak, old, time-worn, mouldering? 
Oh ! 1 will cling to 3'ou, like the ivy 
Unto the latest hour and gracefully wreathe 
A living verdure around decay ! 

Viteili [to himself. ~\ Yes, 
lie shall die. 

Bianca. Die ! die ! who shall die ? What 
Dark crime will now be unfolded? 

Vit. There is 
Tlie victim. 

Bianca. ILi! Otho, — No! oh, do it 
Xot. Stain not our house with such black guilt. 
Why 
Should he die? Alas! you hear me not Oh I 






VITELLL 6 1 

1 beseech 3'ou, by all my past kindness. 

By all my past love, by all his services 

To our race — by ail you have been or hope 

To be — by all you hold dear in earth or heaven, 

Let him live. 

Vit What! do you plead now for him? 
Do you brave me thus ? shall I bear all this ? 
What ! ho ! -within there ! domestics, slaves, seize 
Him and lead him to the dungeon. What ! are 
Ye cowards — do ye fear him ? 

Otho. Back ! back ! hear 
Me. Off ! off ! or I will scatter you like ashes, 
Vit. My sword! bring me a sword. 
Bianca. Mercy ! 
Oh, spare him — stay, stay thy hand, my father f 

Otho. Yitelli, my life is thine : glut thy hate — • 
The day shall come when the deep, heavy knell 
Of vengeance shall resound through ^^our palace, 
It shall shake their massive walls from the base 
To the battlement. - Then will ring the curse 
Of an injured and ^innocent man 
In thy ear. I have done — here is my breast- 
Strike now if you will ; slaves do your duty. [^Exit. 
Bianca. Pardon him ! by these tears, I beseech yoUi 
Vit. Bianca, my daughter ! jS'o, no ! thou wast 
My daughter ! Thou art fallen from thy sphere 
Of purity and love. 

Bianca. Oh ! I am still 
Your daughter ; ^^our virtuous daughter. 

Vit. How much like your mother! the eye, the cheek, 
All the very same. Can it be that brow 
Is pure and spotless? delicious thought! 
A sweet dream — no more. Alas, it is girt 
With infamy, flecker'd with impure desire. 
Shall I curse her ? Thou tremblest lest, perhaps^ 
In moody wrath I should hurl thee beneath 
My feet, or inflict on thee a father's 
Curse. Tremble not, for thou hast curst thyself. 
Life will be a curse ; the hiss of the world 
Will follow thee through morning and evening, 
Through day and night. Bianca ! Bianca I 



62 Vl'TELLI. 

How I loved thee, let these weeping eyes, 

These tremulous hands proclaim. You have killed 

Your father ! broke an old man's heart. Why should 

I live ? my hope, my joy, my life, my love 

Is gone. 

Bianca. Ha I 'tis past I the blackened clouds 
That darkened our once gay horizon. 
Have burst. Gracious Heavens ! why did you aim 
At me your heaviest, angriest bolts ? 
My father's love poisoned, turned to hate 
And loathing ; my vestal purity blurred 
With suspicion, and falsely defamed. 
My more than brother now doomed to die ; 
To die innocent and unavenged. 
No ! Heaven nerve my woman's arm to avert 
Tlie ignominious sentence ! he shall 
Not die ; I will succor and defend him. 

Act hi. — Scene XL 
Dungeon, 
Otho. Life, thou art parsing from me like a dream. 
Oh, God ! is it possible — must I die? 
So suddenly cut down in youth's sweet prime ! 
Shut out by the cold, rotting, wormy grave 
From life, and light, and hope, and jo}' — farewell^ 
My ambitious dreams ! the vision of love. 
My manly pride ; farewell the hero's sword, 
War's dread command, and the exulting shouts 
Of victory ! Forgotten and alone 
I shall lie down in dreamless sleep — the sleep 
Of the grave. No kind hand, in memory 
Of my virtues, will hang over my tomb 
Garlands and. fresh flowers, friendship's free gifts. 
My brain turns around with these wretched thoughts. 
Let me not go mad! I will repose on 
My cold, stony pillow. 

Enter Bianca. 
Bianca. Gracious Heaven 1 
Whither do I wander I Shall I descend 



r 



VITELLI. 

Still farther into this receptacle ? 

The sad cemetery of proud men's hoj>es. 

Upon whose walk ar^ notched the weary hours 

And days of those unfortunate beings, 

Despotic power, in times long gone by, 

Confined. A horrid den, the abode 

Of crime and misery. How the air. 

Damp and unwholesome, stops my panting breath ! 

And my feeble torch-light, that guides my feet, 

Cowers with a flickering flame. Oh, man ! 

Man ! cold, ice-hearted man ! "What cruelties 

Wilt thou not cunningly devise 1 What crimes 

Perform to gratify insensate rage, 

Or blind jealousy, A dark, hellish pit! 

My own trembling voice scares me, my brain is 

Giddy. Ali I what if here should be my death 

And burial place? Oh, Heaven, save mel 

Otho. What 1 do I see Bianca ! oh, let me dew 
Thy brow with drops of ]oj\ Xow Heaven's will 
Be done, for I have lived to see my more 
Than sister. Look up again, Bianca ! 
Ah \ she's cold, pale. I now clasp thee to my 
Broken heart, a sweet fragrant flower on 
An icy bed. 

Bianca. Fly ! fly ! my stern brother's band 
Of blood are revelling now in the hall, 
Drowning in feast and wine, the memory 
Of their deeds. Fly ere the drunken guard, 
Awake, or I am lost 

Otho. W^liatl fly chained 
Thus ? Is this a garb for flight ? 

Bianco.. A woman's 
Hand will break ^^our manacles. 

Otho. Why should you 
Seek to save a friendless outcast's life. 

Bianca. Knowest' 
Thou a woman's heart, and ask me why this 
Danger braved ? Oh, Otho, gratitude 
For a thousand favors, won afi'ection. 
Child of early and storied association, 
Stronger than a sister's love, nerves my arm. 



64 VITELLI. 

• 

Otho. Shall I, an adventurer in fortune, 
A -wanderer from my sweet fatherland, 
Go forth unarmed ? 

Bianca [taki7ig off his C?iains.^ 
Off ! off with these chains ! 
Here, take these weapons, they are a woman's 
Gift; use them vrith a manly arm. jS^ow haste • 
To the bannered field, like a warrior 
Of the olden and heroic age. Among 
The eagle souled win thyself a name 
That shall be a beacon-light to the future, 
A watch- word through all time. 

Otho. Is it a dream ? ' 
Am I then free ! free in soul ? free indeed, 
r'hall I not die amid insulting foes, 
Slave-like, with cold, scornful brows around me ■' 
But with the tossing of plumes before my eye. 
The lightning shock of lances, and the music 
Of battle in my ear, winning the wreath 
Of immortality. Oh, I thank thee, 
]3ianca ! .for thou hast poured new life 
Through my burning veins. 

Biunca. Haste ! haste ? take this ring 
And lock of hair; the}" were a lover's gift. 
There was a time, a proud and happy day, 
When they would have been a passport to fame 
Difctinguished honors might have fiov>'ed, 
Greatness, the gayety and the attractions 
Of social life. Alas! they caniiot be now. 
Seek out Cosimo, for they once were his. 
Though banished he has sought his followers 
In the camp, and they have welcomed him 
With a soldier's frienclship. Narrate to him 
My sad and mournful tale, how a brother*s 
Treachery, a father's hate doth poison 
All my peace. How fiendish malice, deceit 
A^enomous, with hearts harder than the rocks, 
]\Iore merciless than the wild evening wolf. 
Would taint my name, and blur my guiltless love^, 
. As spotless as the vault of serenest heaven. 

Otho. Mciit gladly will I serve thee, Bianca. 



VITELLI. 65 

A strong presentiment of my death hangs 

Upon my mind like a gathering cloud. 

In the coming storm and tempest of the state 

I shall be swept away. You will, I hope, 

Think of me when dead, as one who bore 

To you in life an unchanging friendship ; 

That pure devotion and strong attachment, 

Which will survive, cherishing your name as 

Inseparable from the very being 

ISTearest the heart, a talisman, and hope 

Unto the latest hour. Farewell ! it is 

A harsh word — a life-chilling word — the lips 

Jleluctantly learn to speak it ; the heart 

Sinks at its utterance ; but thus and thus, 

I kiss, for the last time, your snow-white hand. 

Bianca. Farewell ! [Exit Otho, 

"Was ever a maiden mocked thus. 
By cruel, remorseless fate ? Him she loved 
Disgraced and banished ; him she was 
Taught to honor and revere that lover's 
Deadliest foe. Beset with snares, just Heaven, 
Look on me ! make bright with sunny radiance, 
The dark and angry clouds rolling above me. 



Act hi. — ^Soene III. 

Vitelli Palace. 

Orsini. The Moor has escaped ; his footsteps have been 
Traced beyond the city's gates ; guided 
By a sure and unerring destiny, 
He rushes to his own destruction. The camp 
Will not protect him long from my power. 
I must be wary. Ha ! who approaches here ? 

Enter Bianca. 

Bianca. Holy Father, right glad I am to see 
You, for sorrow needs a ghostly counsellor. 

Or. There is a sweeter theme for maiden's ear. 
Bianca. What mean you ? 



66 VITELLI. 

Or. Love is the familiar subject. 

Bianca. What! a priestly moralist on the passions ? 
Or, perchance thou wouldst tell the melancholy tale, 
HoY\- many loves do sweetly bloom; how many 
Nipped in the bud ; how many fade and die. 

Or. Oh ! believe my deep and earnest passion ; 
Thou art more prized than the miser's treasure, 
Long hidden in the sands and gloated o'er, 
In musing solitude and contemplation, 
From day to day. Bianca, without thy 
Smile, the world would be shrouded in despair, 
And covered with a gloomy pall. Speak, 
Thy pleasing accents fill with delight my soul. 

Bianca. Ah, 
Monk, thou art in a laughing, merry mood, 
And I fear would mock my grief with vain svords. 
In love ! Thy tale is strange, most fantastic ; 
A priest — a cowled priest^one who barters 
Love and holy wedlock's joy ; it cannot be, 
Methinks thou art yet sleeping. 

Or. I am 
No monk. Thus do I throw away my garb 
And sacred vestments ! I am no priest, but 
One of a proud and long descended line. 
Listen to my tale : — I had a brother — 
A dear brother ; him, in memory of the feud 
Between our families, the old Vitelli, 
Your father, pursued with bitter hate, 
Affixing a foul stigma with words of scorn, 
And deep reproaches upon our rank and name. 
His blood alone would efface the impression 
From the minds of men, In this priest's disguise 
I would have plunged my dagger in his heart, 
And in his warm life-blood soon washed out 
The remembrance of the wrong and injur3^ 
But )^our calm and passionate beauty quelled 
My tempestuous thoughts, and quick turned 
My revenge to love ; and now receive me, 
Oh ! receive me gently to that bosom. 

Bianca. Off, viper ! fiend, away ! tby soul is spotted 
With sin more loathsome than the glossed adder. 



VITELLI. 6*7 

Or, Maiden, beware, beware ! my heart is 
Like the steel which yields not to force. Yonr father's 
Life, your brother's life are within my power. 
If you requite not my love, they. shall die. 

Bianca. Ah, horror ! off, murderer, withstand me 
Not ! 1 will arouse the dead, and awake 
Our armed house with my cries. K!:oon shall 
ilash around me a hundred swords and torches. 
Dare the bayed lioness, but dare not me ! 

Or, Go blazon thy tale in thy father's ear, 
And he will curse thee in his hate, and slay 
Thee in his frantic mood of jealousy. 

Bianca. Alas ! too well I know thy words are true. 

Or. Say, dost thou consent ? 

Bianca. Merciful Heavens ! 
Kather than this, rain down upon my head 
All curses ; let me wander still for ever 
Shelterless — famishing, a loathed wretch, 
Through the merciless wide world. You are 
So good and noble, you would not do it. 

Or. Woman ! this is no sudden fancy. 
Or gust of passion ; it hath burnt like 
A fever, in my veins for years ; it hath 
Been my sleep, my drink, my bread, my life — all, 
Everything that is embraced within 
The current of my being. You, and your race 
Are within my toils ; secretly I have 
Wound my serpent-like folds around your house. 
Woman, shall it fall ? 

Bianca. Awaj^", away ! there 
Is a fiendish spirit laughing in your eye. 
No gleam of mercy lights up with rosy smile 
Your countenance. Oh, what could kindle hell's 
Flame in your breast, blotting out all goodness, 
And that heaven enkindled, purest epark. 
Sweet charity. If thou knowest my father's 
Or my brother's dark crimes, spare us — do not 
Crush us like a worm. All, all, all is dark 
Destiny! Destiny! who can fathom 
Thy mysteries ? I am wildly driven 
By thy secret influences, like a bark 



68 VITELLI. 

Adown deep and yawning waters. ' [^xit 

Or. Why didst 
Thou fling thyself across ni}^ way ? Thou art 
The fairest, gentlest flower of thy kind, 
My onward tread must crush thee in its path, 
Blighted, cold. There is no gall, no drug 
That oozes from the medicinal trees, half so 
Bitter as words crushing the vexed heart, 
And extinguishing the fierce long-pent flames 
Of unsuccessful passion. Yiper! ha ! 
Such bitter words ! such deep scorn to reveal 
Itself in a brow, and in a figure 
Of such exceeding loveliness ! Sun, which 
Surveyest all things beautiful on earth. 
Strike with thj piercing beams those flashing eyes ! 
Those envy-darting eyes, in jealousy 
Of their power. Is this, then, my reward ? 
Scorned, shuddered at, loathed, abhorred. 
By hell aad all its host, I'll have vengeance — 
Bloody vengeance ! It was but a moment 
Since the Ensign of the Council of Ten 
Was hurrying with his banner and sword 
In the street to the Senate there to announce 
And determine the Jew, Barabbas's death. 
I have proofs — damning proofs, that will surely 
Strike with bloody ruin this accursed race, 
I will be sudden as wide-wasting death, 
Secret as the mysterious and silent grave. 



ACT IV. 

Scene I. 

Senate Chamber. 

Chief of the Senate. 
Senators ! entrusted with some brief sway, 
We are convened to hear the solemn proofs. 



VITELLI. 69 

Testimony and adjudications 

Of the Council of Ten, Strange suspicions 

Fill the minds of men, and disturbs their q.uiet. 

That murder has lifted its horrid head 

In Florence. The wealthy Jesv, Barabbas. 

Has disappeared. He who bears the SAVord 

C)f Justice, the Ensign of the Council, 

•Has made most rapid and diligent search ; 

Messengers have passed and returned 

From the camp. He is not there. He meddles 

iSTot with wars, or the schemes of wise statesmen, 

To him are all unknown the crucible 

Of the alchymist, the labors and dreams 

Of the philosopher. Much less does the rage 

Of faction chafe his spirit, and upon 

Its dark and turbulent sea his bark was 

J^ever launched. 

What say ^le Senators, 

Gonsalvo and Molini ? 

Gon. The matter surely has been acted on 
Full too speedily. Are attestations. 
With all true verity corrob orating 
His disappearance, prepared for this 
Most august tribunal ? 

JEnsign of the Council. The Council have 
Passed to-judgment ; receive the decision 
Of myself iind colleagues after inquiry 
And full investigation. Murder has been 
Committed. Such is the fact believed. 
And certified upon our records. 

J/. It is not meet, upon so grave a matter, 
To act with indecent haste. 

Gbn. I much doubt the truth 
Of the allegation. His vast possessions 
Are all known ; his ships and caravans bring 
lii the gold of India. Most probably 
He has gone abroad. 

Chief. He has done business 
But recently on the change. 

Gon. But whether 
Abroad or at home, his accumulations 






VITELLI. 

And sordid gains, make liim in human eyes 

Destestable. The city groans under 

His extortions ; his large, usurous bonds 

Increase in number until the palaces 

And churches are despoiled of the statues. 

The tribute of majestic minds, the works 

Of graceful genius, and laborious art. 

The greatest tyrant of the later age 

Was he of Syracuse, who with a miser's 

TVit and refined sophistry, stripped 

The celebrated statue of Jupiter 

Of a golden robe, with the happy speech, 

That 'twas surely too heavy in summer, 

And too cold in winter. Tyrants always 

Are known by their deeds of harsh oppression. 

I like not that palaces are stripped of statues. 

More tyrannical is he who would take 

The costly tiara, robe and jewels 

Of the noble for his usury, than 

The despotic ruler who deprived 

The statue Esculapius of his beard, 

Woven of gold, asserting at the time 

That such a venerable ornament 

111 became the beardless son of Apollo. 

'Tis far better to defer the result 

And final conclusion to a future day. 

M. He is, without doubt, dead ; his palace is 
Untenanted to-da}^ Bating his love 
Of boundless wealth, he lived a man 
Of meek carriage, and most gentle virtues. 

Gon. So rapacious an usurer needs not 
The compliment of an eulogium on 
His death. If he went not pleasantly down 
Smiling in his last sleep ; if not abroad 
In foreign lands, upon most solemn proofs 
We will pronounce sentence at the usual hour 
Of meeting. The foul suspicions, afi'right. 
And sudden consternation will then have passed 
Away, leaving the reason unclouded 
And serene. 

Chief. To-day wild lawless misrule 



VITELLI. 7 1 

Confusing and blindly impelling all, 

Disturbs the wonted current of events. 

I fear, Gonsalvo, that justice, which flows 

From the council of Florence for ever. 

Like the great statue, Nilus, whose leaning urn 

Pours forth its waters in perpetual stream, 

Pure incorruptible, and incapable 

Of stagnation, may now unhappily, 

By your discourse be perverted. Murder 

Stands ready at our door, and haggard fear 

Beats its wild, shrill alarm on every side. 

The safety of the state demands debate, 

Quick, immediate and instant decision, 

And execution of the sovereign power. 

Enter Tiberio. 

There is one without, apparently hot in haste^ 
Who loudly and clamorously doth proclaim 
"With most mysterious air, that he is 
Privy to the solemn deliberations 
Of this night's council. 
Chief. Admit him. 

Unter ORSi]?a, 

How now, what knowest 

Thou concerning the Jew, Barabbas ? 

Is he abroad or dead ? 

Or. Dead. 

Chief. How died he ? 
In meek composure, or was his last rest 
Troubled with terrific dreams, portents 
And shadows of another world ? or did 
Grim murderers, with bloody hands, affright 
His soul away ? 

Or. Strange to narrate, he was 
Murdered — foully, secretly murdered ! 

Chief. Who the authors ? 

Or. Here's a dagger — read ! 

Chief Cosmo de Vitelli. 



VITELLIo 



All. Vitelli I Vitelli ! Ko, no ! 
Chief. ^Vhat mean 
You monk ? This is no mockery or tarce. 
We bear the robes of instice from no wantonness 
Or boyish play. How dare yon now accuse 
Of such a murderous deed, and vile act 
A race so noble ? 

Gon I am incredulous 
Still, and dislike his manner. I pray you 
Sift each particular circumstance and tact. 
And if possible, you will reach the conscience 
Of the accuser with an oath. 

Or. Before • . » 

Hidi Heaven, I swear my story is true! 
In the Vitelli garden, the grey wall 
Is broken ; the flowers fading ; the mould 
Kew strewn. Search, and you will find proofs. 

Chief. He is 
Js-ot a witness that needs the torture or rack 
To extort the truth. 

Tiberio, search you ^ -^ 

The garden, and attach with proper speed. 
The Vitelli house. 

Or. Ay, all of them, sire. 
Son and daughter. 

Chief. Thy story is most strange. 
It dotii baffle'belief. The picture exceeds 
The vision of credulity, and surpasses 
The truths of illumined history. 
Or the tales of extravagant fiction 
Few would believe that one so rich, who held 
Imperious sway in Florence ; whose mem ^as 
Inoffensive ; who nightly heard the music 
Of his troop of pannier'd mules laden 
With ducats, would perish by the way side 
Dreaming of argosies freighted with the drugs 
And perfumes of Araby, untold we^ilth, 
Coral and gold washed by Ceylon divers 
From the sands of India, and the islands 
Of the sea. It can scarcely be that one 
>Ao fair as the old Vitelli's daughter, 



VlTELLt. 73 

Whose nature is as gentle as the dove, 
Whose voice most musical is mild and witching 
As the softly, wooing Nightingale • whose lips 
Drop smiles, as the cloud sweet dews, could be so 
Steeped in hateful ein^ and stained with the crimes 
Of bloody-minded men ? What dire mishap, 
What grevious, deadly wrong could rashly impel 
To such bloody vengeance upon an old man, 
Whose only curse was gold, whose heart was filled 
Alone with the devouring love of gain. 

Of, It was a banquet eve ; the rich Jew was 
Full of joy ; gay and gladsome was his speech ; 
His heart was merry as a child. They drugged 
His cup, and when he slept, they washed their handf 
In his blood. Here is the Jew's bond upon 
The Vitelli palace — it's usance unpaid. 
This was their reward ; this the magic charm 
Which dyed their souls in abhorred guilt. 

Chief. Ha ! most Avonderful ! yet, alas ! too true* 
Or. My tale is told, I will retire. Ha ! ha I 
Now they are within my toils, at one blow 
Stricken to the earth. The pent emotions 
Of my soul disgorge themselves, and revenge 
Eolls its hot and bitter waters o'er my 
Long agonized and passion-torn breast* \Exit 

Enter Tiberio* 

Tih. We made most rapid search in the garden^ 
And there we found the old man dead. His face 
Was swollen and convulsed • his brow blackened 
As if by poison ; his breast plainly bore 
Marks of violence from a stiletto 
Wound. We have seized the old Yitelli 
And his daughter ; the son, fearless Guido, 
Could not be found. Shall I admit them to 
Your presence ? 

Chief. Aye, quick, bring them before us. 

Enter Vitelli and Bianoa. 
Cosmo de Vitelli and Bianca, 
Father and daughter — you are arraigned 

7 



74 VITELLI. 

For a violation of tlie law that binds 

The state together. You have sundered 

The cords and ligaments of society 

That are its pillars, that sustain, uphold 

Its deep foundations, fellowship and love. 

While the frame of nature, and the course of things. 

Gives to all the humanity, mildness, 

And majesty of angels, your breasts have turned 

To malice — the taint, the leprosy of guilt 

Enshrouding 3-our souls, you have become fiends. 

The serious accusation runs, that a deed 

Oft ushered in by the portentous blaze 

Of comets, chronicled for ages, Stamped 

In the indellible impress of the day. 

In the muniments and pages of history ; 

The imperishable records of time, 

Leaving an unfading tinge of blackness 

Upon each object around, has been by you 

And yours committed. In fine, the warm blood 

Curdles, and the cheek grows j^ale with horror 

To mention it ; you are before the world 

Cold and ruthless murderers. 

Vit Murderers ! 
Bring forward him who is our accuser, 
The foul lie will choke in his throat ; perjured. 
His soul will faint within him. It cannot 
Be that you believe our venerabls name, 
And time-consecrated house is stained 
With such a crime. 

M. Do you deny the crime ? 
Beware ! the rack is near ; we will extort 
The truth from you by torture. 

Vit. Ha ! are 3'ou 
There, Molini ? hoary villain. I appeal 
To you, the solemn judge, to forbid 
Him, our adversary, the inheritor 
Of an hereditary feud, from thus 
Calumniating, in fierce, unchecked malice, 
Our name. Does it befit that he should render* 
Justice to our house ; he, it's bitterest foe, 
Whose white lip but at the idle mention 



VITELLI. 75 

Of our name, was wont to quiver with hate 
And envy, 

Molini points to the Dagger and Bond. 

Look you here ! Your name is written 

Here, and here. Know you them ? know you the Jew, 

Barabbas ? Why, why ! what charm is in them, 

That thus they startle you like the;^ pealing notes 

Of thunder, or a voice from heaven, that thus 

You tremble as with the consciousness of crime ? 

Bianca. Signior Gonsalvo, you have ever been 
Our friend ; thy fatli<*i' also was our friend, 
And in thy breast the spark of gentle pity 
Ts most easily kindled. Can it be 
That you will be here a quiet witness 
Of a mockery of justice like this ? 
Shall he who should be our judge be our accuser, 
Too ? shall he threaten us with keen torments 
If we confess not this most horrid guilt ? 
Torments more cruel than the damned feel. 
Oh, think, I adjure you, what 'tis to destroy 
The reverence in the minds of proud men. 
Towards our ancient house and untainted fame I 
Think what it is to lay in dust our hopes 
Of honor, and the ancestral splendor 
Of our race, its title, eminence and rank ; 
Think what 'tis to efface from the world, and steep 
In blood all that is dear to us on earth, 
Our guilelessness and innocence ! for, hear 
Me, Heaven, I am innocent. 

Gon, I would pledge 
My soul she is not guilty. Look on this 
Brow so fair — this is not a murderess's 
Brow ! 

Chief. Accused, hear your sentence ! You are 
Convicted of a crime whose punishment 
Is sternly written in our code of laws. 
The testimony is most full ; records 
Most solemn are properly produced. 
And circumstances strangely true attested. 



76 VITELLI. 

A holy father, confessor and priest 

Appearing against you, leaves no shadow 

Of doubt upon the mind. Blood must flow for blood. 

Cosmo de Yitelli, thy doom is death — 

A public, shameful death ! thy body we give 

To the wheel, thy soul to the God who gave it, 

To-morrow's setting sun must shine on your corse. 

Bianca. To-morrow ! so soon ! to-morrow ! You meant 
Not that! Cut him not off so suddenly ; 
Let him live a little, little longer ! 
Why should he die ? Ah ! I kn'ow it is a false monk's 
Story — no, no ! a fiend. Oh ! if you will 
Only pardon him, I will wet the dust 
With my tears ; and good angels will bless you. 
Pardon him — there will be joy in heaven 
For it, and men, cold, hard men, will smile on you. 

Chief. We cannot — he must die. 

Bianca. Blood hounds, not men, 
Why should you thirst, with ravenous desire, 
For an old man's blood ? Is there no pity 
In the wretched world ? 

Chief. From the sacredness 
Of our office, we cannot pardon him. 
Yet, reluctantly, Bianca, 
In mercy of your former innocence, 
Winning beauty, gentleness and purity, 
Is granted a delay of the execution 
Of the final and last sentence. Tiberio, 
Commit them each to their narrow cell. 

Bianea. Inhuman judges! why grant the boon of life 
For a few days to me, and refuse it 
To him ? Why wring this heart with continued pain? \ 
Why make each minute fibre of the brain 
Thrill with agony ? 

Vit. Oh, my JBianca ! 
I have wronged thee, foully wronged thee | 
My ear was filled with foul suspicions. 
Come to thy father's heart, and let me wrap 
Thee in my cold embrace, and wet thy brow 
With scalding tears of sorrow. 

Tiberio. You must separate. 



VITELLI. 77 

Vit. Oh ! again farewell. [J5'ari#. 

Attendant. 
Make way ! make way ! a Senator approaches. 

Duke. How now, Gheraldi ? what means this tumult? 

G. Tear off your robes, you are not worthy of them ; 
Your country demands your sword. Listen to me : 
Some moments since, a muffled stranger, 
In masqued attire, rushed into my presence, 
And stood o'er me like a dark phantom. 
He spoke with heaving breast, and choked utterance, 
As if wrestling with some horrid thought. 
Gheraldi, haste, there is treachery within 
The city, and murderous breasts now pant 
For your life. Your -ancient rule in Florence, 
Is soon to terminate in revolution ; 
The power of the Senate is to be 
Overthrown ; Guido, the daring offspring 
Of the Vitelli, is traitor, and author 
Of the conspiracy. 

All. Guido ! ^o, no. 

Gon. Ha ! 'tis discovered ; that monk again. 

G. I started from my couch, he was vanished. 

M. Our proceedings, then, are but the prelude 
To other wars. Scarce have we condemned 
The father to gloomy imprisonment 
And death, ere the son uplifts the standard 
Of revolt. 

Gon. TVhat said the strange masquer further ? 
Are there any allied with him ? 

G. None. 

Gon. Thanks to Heaven, I am safe! Have you now 
Other proofs than these mad, incredible ravings ? 

G. Yes ; this moment I slew a slave of Guido, 
A prowling, murderous wretch, who attempted 
To impede my way to this hall of justice, 
Forum and Senate chamber ; his blood is 
Yet warm upon my sword, who solemnly, 
With his dying tongue, announced the slaughter. 
The change-loving, ever discontented 
Soldiery within the city, are his 
Already ; he has seized the instruments 



78 VITELLI. 

Of war ; already now are well-armed 
The retainers of his house, to commence 
The work of extermination. 

Duke. What can be done? It is an auspicious 
Moment for deeds of valor. The well-being 
Of the state, we are bound by a common oath 
To sustain, its untarnished honor 
To protect and defend. The toils of 
War are known to me. It is most certainly, 
The important epoch in a soldier's life, 
And sweet to him -are martial airs and notes ; 
The music of battle. If nothing more, 
We can die — die like men. 
G. That, I fear, must be 
The extent of all our actions. We're cut off 
From all resources ; the soldiery without 
The city encamped upon the Arno, 
Seduced by numerous bribes, are burning 
With rage for an injured, banished man. 
The servile tools, the rank city's swarm, are banded 
In a bloody conspiracy, with rites more 
Fell and horrible than bind the damned in hell. 
M. I pray you reverse Cosimo's banishment ; 
The populace demand his quick return. 
Gon. Mention not that accursed name. 
M. Hear me, 
Signior Gonsalvo; they whose favor we 
Sought to win by his banishment, 
Have rep.^id our services by treason 
And murderous deeds. The Vitelli race, 
Whose pride we sought to gratify, or rather its 
Once noble head is attainted. They are 
All now the enemies of the state ; they once 
Were his bitterest foes. Admit Cosimo 
And his faithful band into the city, 
And victory, plumed gaily, like a bird 
Of good omen, will perch on our banner, 
Upon the issue, Florence will live, or 
Change to a thralling tyranny. 
Gon, I pray you 



VITELLI, ^^9 

Act not rashly in this which much concerns 
Your honor. 

Duke. Is this the Senate's decree ? 

Gon. Hear me. 

All. It is — it is. 

Gon. It shall be your last 

Duke. Molini and Gheraldi, Senators 
Of Florence, be you the speedy messengers 
Of our will to Cosimo. \^Exit, 

Gon. Soon, soon, 
Most haughty duke, you shall feel my power, 
And this arm. With difficulty I saved 
The life of Bianea, e'en for an hour. 
I will not again be refused a boon, 
But increase my influence, and enlarge 
My power. The duke, a creature of the hour, 
Soon shall fall, and I myself will be free * 

From the ignominy of his worse rule. 
The unwept tomb of his fathers awaits him ; 
His star will hasten to a bloody set. 



Act IY. — Scene XL 



Castle near the Gates of Florence. 

Guido. The sun retires to the gardens of the west, 
Bathing in a flood of light the tall pines. 
Statues, and richly carved marble palaces ; 
The armed man, sculptured in high relief. 
Grows twice as large, as floating shadows roll, 
Prophetic of the coming night. Methinks, 
Far and faint I hear the vespers sweet chime, 
And solemn chaunt of serious men breathing 
Their prayer, and soothing the heart of passion 
In quiet rest. It is Yallambrosa's 
Leafy grove that sends forth the solemn strain, 
Most melancholy of the year, or Fiesoli's 



80 VrTELLI. 

Towering spire, overhanging all the rest, 

That tolls the note of woe, the sad extract 

Of extremest grief ; it is not often 

That the pensive thought pervades the warrior's breast, 

And then only as now upon the eve 

Of battle, turmoil and wild confusion: 

When sad images of death unnerve the soul, 

And stifle the rolling waves that agitate 

His breast. Golden, luxurious Florence ! 

Thou art the glittering prize which my ambition 

Shall grasp. Beautiful ! beautiful city ; 

Gay, voluptuous queen of Italy ! 

Hark, again ! the night advances ; the masquers 

Throng once more the streets. The scene is changed ; 

The voice of reveliy and song comes floating 

On the pinions of the breeze ; and, behold, 

The banquet torches are lighting up, sparkling 

In the misty twi-light, like waving flowers 

Of fire. Aye ! laugh and revel on — feast and dance 

Joyous city ; I have set for thee a banquet 

Of blood — noble blood — your hoarj^ Senate's 

Blood. Ah ! why doth not Gon salvo return ? 

This is the time and place. The instrument 

I have used in my design is slow-paced 

IS'ow ; I will change soon that tardy manner 

To a fleeting courier's tread. I must soon 

Have others to minister to my ambition. 

All shall be my tools, and subserve my pride. 

The meanest and the noblest things alike 

Shall work out my lofty purposes and- aims. 

Ye decayed and time-worn towers, whose 

Frowning grandeur doth awe my aspiring soul ; 

Ye canopying heaven's, high lifted 

With all your gorgeous emblazonry of light 

And <hade ; ye flower-enamelled glades, 

Yon multitudinous city, all shall be 

The witnesses and echoes of my deeds. 

The appointed hour is past. Gonsalvo 

Swore the duke should die, yet still he comes not. 

Perhaps some accident thwarts his plans. 2^o, 

I see him grasp his throat ; he plunges the dagger— 



VITELLI. 81 

He falls — he dies ; thanks to Heaven ! Ah ! no, 
. See, he approaches ; he winds along the way. 
Hell and furies ! no, 'tis that monk. Why does 
He follow me here ? I will watch him close. 
How now, priest, what would ye with me ? 
Or. Vengeance 1 look on the avenger. 
Guido. Ha! is it thou, loathed wretch? come on then. 
My fevered soul thirsts for your blood. 

Enter Gonsalvo. \_Separates Orsini and Guido.'] 

Gon. Hold, hold! 

Guido. Off, off! let me alone, he is our foe. [him 

Gon. Guards, guards ! take that wretch away, and let 
Famish \vl the loneliest dungeon. 

Or. I defy you and your menaces. I scorn 
You, and spit upon you. 

Gon. Away with him. 

Guido. Say, is it done — is the duke dead ? 

Gon. Aye, he is ; 
I leapt upon him, like a tiger on 
His sleeping prey. His blood is on this arm. 

Guido. Ha ! say est thou so, Gonsalvo. Come to my heart. 
Thou hast done that which life nor fortune can 
Kepay. 

Gon. Yet mark me ; Bianca, thy sister, 
To whom thou art most affectionately 
Attached, and thy father are entombed 
Within a dungeon's walls. 

Guido. And yon alive ! 
Why did not your sword pierce to the lieart the wretch 
That dared to lift an arm against them ? 

Gon. He who betrayed them is in your power : 
I saved hini from your vengeful arm t'hat 
You might torture him to death, and feast your soul 
Upon his convulsive pangs, as you would 
Upon the writhings of a serpent beneath 
Your heel. 

Guido. Entrapped- — outwitted. / 

Gon, Mark me, 
Further ; yoi^r plans are discovered. The spy 



82 VITELLI. 

You placed upon the Senate's movement8, 
Is weltering in liis blood. Cosimo 
Is recalled from his exile ; the message 
From the Senate will soon reach him. 

Guido. Ila! ha! 
A fearful, sudden light flashes upon me 
xVs from the abyss of hell. We will soon 
Hasten the. execution of all our schemes. 
Arm every vassal. Arouse the soldiers, 
]S'o\v marshalled for battle, and bid them 
Strike for the rightful masters and liege lords ; 
Speed, in God's name speed, seize the city's gates, 
I will man and guard jour strong castle's walls. \^Exit. 

Gon. I fear not tlie impending danger, which 
Like a tempest-cloud approaching, disturbs 
The mind of Guido. Mine has it been, while 
Others bore the shield, and cuirass on the field 
Of battle, the intrigues and plots of statesmen 
To unfold, and wise schemes of policy 
To devise. By me most often has been 
Addressed, with studied arts, letters 
Of great weight and moment, to embassies, 
And those in their train at foreign courts. 'Tis 
No ignoble art, requiring qualities 
Most difficult to attain ; ripe knowledge 
Of laws, states, books and men. My messengers, 
Outstripping the wind, shall carry my desires 
Express, and commanding, to the Pisans, 
And those successful generals in the isles 
Of Malta and Elbe, skilled in the arts 
Of war, whose brows wear the wreath of laurel 
Fame victorious warfare in Syria 
And the Holy Land. They will generously 
Send me succors in the struggle that is 
Yet to come. Enough I peril in the strife. ^"^ 
Like a bold gamester who flings to fate's 
Disposal, his heap of gold, do I on 
A chance, hazzard honor, love, life and all. 



VITELLI. 83 

Act IV.— Scene III. 

The Camp. 

Cosimo. My followers ! faithful comrades in wars 
And former seiges ! extend to me a welcome ; 
Their's is an nnbroken attachment. There 
Is nothing like the friendship of the camp. 
Mutual toils, jDrivations ; the sympathies 
Of the common mass, in wearisome marches, 
In hunger, cold, fatigue and wasting sickness ; 
The busy hum resounding, and glad notes 
Of victory ; the sj)irit-stirring shouts, 
And the pealing cadence of the war-music, 
Awake, in the generous and manly breast 
The responding emotions, and deep-felt joy 
Of affectionate and cordial esteem, 
And -unchanging fidelit}-. A league lies 
Between me and Florence. 1 can soon march 
Them there. But yesterday I received 
A friendless orphan, effeminate and kind 
Otho, imder my protection. The message 
He brought is mifavorable, and bodes 
Me nought but ill. She that was the load star 
Of my boyhood, and whose smile throws a charm 
O'er my advancing years, still beautifully 
Exhibits the affection of a woman. 
The foul calumny and lie that assails 
Her, I will boldly wipe away with my sword^ 
And purify, the atmosphere of falsehood 
That now surrounds her. The token she has sent me, 
Will be treasured as an amulet, 
And worn in battle. Now, at this moment 
Bright visions of a noble destiny 
Float over me. If but victorious over 
My enemies, my gladsome bark stayed 
By no ship-wrecking sands, will sail adown 
Life's dark waters. These high ambitious thoughts 
Gush to my heart, like the healthful currents 



34 VITELLI* 

Of blood, exciting me onward in the cause 
Of virtue, innocence and freedom. 

Enter Otho. 

I sent for yon again, for I deemed 
That in yon city thou mightst have heard 
Somewhat of a pilgrim-knight— my brother) 
Is he alive or dead ? 

Otho. I know not. Some 
Months since, there were strange rnmors and hmts, that 
He was driven by the stinging mfamy 
Of some dark crime, and by the mfluence 
And power of the Vitelli, into 
The Holy Land. Since then, a death-hke silence 
Rests upon his name and memory. 

Cos. I know ^ . 

• Full well his majestic nature was oowed 
With guilt and passion. Still he js my brother. 
Unfortunate in his career, his is 
The harsh fate to be pi oscribed by power. 
Oh ! my brother, thy mce sensibilities 
Perverted; thy brain maddened by the sense 
Of wrong, swells the fiery passions m my breast. 
Alas, alas ! Cosimo, what remains 
Of all the untarnished honors once 
Hold in thy ancestral name ? it's conquests, 
It's hopes ; but present infamy, contempt, 
And sad dishonor. Ha, ha ! there is one 
Thing will wipe them off; and that I will have 
Yengeance, mighty vengeance. 

Attendant. There are here two 
Senators of Florence, who most earnestly 
Crave admittance to your person. 

(7o« Ha 'ha! 
Ha' "iiowTrell the speech sounds! two Senators 
Of Florence craye admittance. Kow fortune thoit 
ilast changed sides ; once they Toided their spleen 
And venom on me, and bearded me otten 



VITELLI. 85 

To my teeth. Kow will I defy them, and pluck 
Them by the beard in scorn. 

Enter Gheraldi and Molini. 

How dare you come 

Into your enemy's camp ! Think you so 
Lightly of your lives that thus fearlessly 
You cast them into danger's gulf! 

M. Why should we 
Fear ? With unblenched gaze, the eagle builds 
His eyry in the cedar's top, and looks 
With scorn ipon the mole-eyed insects 
Below. Thu^^ we, from the high sphere of our 
Uprightness, 1- 'gh at all threats and defiance. 

Cos. Ha ! hi. • .ire you so full of pride ? Look ye ! I am 
A cedar, shake rm not too much. Are you 
Eagles? Soar yc : ever so high in your 
Untamed flight, I ...ave the jesses that will 
Full you down. 

O. Forbear your scorn, irony 
And taunts ! This i no hour for idle talk. 
Our lives, aye, the* livos of all Florence hang 
With a brittle thread upon the issue 
Of our consultation. At this moment 
There are dark plotters, and bloody traitors 
Conspiring for the downfall of the state, 
It's Senate, and its ancient constitution. 

Oos, Curst be your Senate — curst your constitution ! 
Most noble Senate ! most admirable 
Constitution ! who heaped upon my head 
Wrongs as high as heaven. Aye, you the Senate ! 
Where said you was written there, Cosimo's 
Banishment, aye, in your constitution. 
Most wise Senate ! ha ! ha ! most excellent 
Constitution ! Away ! your rank injustice 
Has made be deaf. 

G. Hear us, we beseech you, 
By every tie and sacred obligation. 
Recollect how well becomes the patriot 
Magnanimity, an attribute and virtue 
8 



86 VITELLI^ 

More ennobling tlian valor. Tlie liberties" 
Of the state, aye, our lives^ now hang upon 
Your decision and action. Root bnt out 
Tliis bold conspiracy — hurl to the dust 
The daring traitor, Guido — then shall thy 
Goods, which are confiscated, be restored. 
Thy honors, titles, name, so illustrate 
The annals of Florence as to become 
A beacon-light for future ages. 

Cos. Do you 
Kot mock me ? Said you Guido was traitor ? 
, Senators. "We did. 

Cos. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! and have I the power 
To crush thee, villain — abhorred villain ? 
Have you not banished me, wounded me 
To the quick, stung me to the heart, and flung ^ 
Upon me every curse ? Ha ! now, wi^etch, I will 
Grapple with you fiercely, hurl you from your 
Power, trample you under my feet. Come 
On ! come on ! follow, follow all ; it shall 
Be done. 

Act IV.-— Scene IY. 

Passage leading to a Vaulted Dungeon. 

Enter Tiberio with Vitellt. 

Vit. Back, back ! I will not enter. Oh 1 whither 
Would you plunge me ? Oh ! I know you would not 
Confine me in such a vault, a cemetery, 
A dismal charnel-house, and here behold 
Tlie fierce, distorted, lineaments of the dead. 
Glare upon me in ghastly mockery. 
The damp, sickly air smells all of the dead ; 
Tlie walls are clotted with blood. They are traced 
All o'er with tortures from the rack and wheeL 
Those at some day past have received, ^ 
"When imprisoned, their groans, confessions, 
Stripes and agony. 'Tis the habitation 
Of the now rotting dead. Look there! look there! 
There are sightless skulls, and fleshless arms there. 



VITELLI. 87 

Tliey beckon me back. Back, back ! I will not 
Enter. Life is here, loathed death holds there 
His revels. 

Tib. My mandates are imperative 
And most severe. You must go into the cell 

Vit Oh 1 I cannot ; how could I sleep where the worm 
Is feasting in corruption's house ; where there 
Is not a bed or straw pallet, but is 
Stamped with some dying wretch's keen torments 
And last agonies. Oh ! how could Bianca sleep ? 
Oh 1 where is she? Oh ! you will let me see 
Her once more before I die. If you will, 
I will go in here — go any where. 

Tib. Yes, 
Yes, 3^ou shall see her. Shame upon these tears, 
I thought the fountains they flowed from were dry. 



ACT v. 

Scene L 
J^ear the Gates of Florence. 

Otho. What a saddened aspect doth life wear 
To some, who bear detraction's barbed arrow 
In their breast to the last moment of time, 
Writhing Avith the bitter pain inflicted 
In long continued torture. Around me, 
Like dying gladiatois, fiercely contend 
These brave men my vision often hath greeted 
In former wars, and hailed returning 
Laden with the spoils of conquest. I cannot 



88 VITELLI. 

Lift my hand against the vassals who have 

Watched me fondly, and repaid each word 

And secret wish with kindness. Tlie perfidy 

And dark act of treachery, so framed 

And cunningly interwoven with the web 

And existence of Bianca, I do 

Detest and abhor. She is not to be found 

By me now, nor her brother, for dreadful acts, 

And dire exploits renowned. I, however, 

Must act my part, and with a feebler arm 

Hurl my lance. Could I but see the flashing eye 

Of those more dear than life ; long cherished, 

With whom my infant eyes were delighted. 

Or see the Moorish banner, floating with its 

Gorgeous folds, or hear, with ravished ear, 

The loud and resounding notes of music, 

I should die satisfied on the field 

Of battle. 

Enter Cosimo. 

Cos. Ha ! they forsake the gates. Pursue, 
Avenge, with every implement pf blood. 
On, soldiers, on ! victory sits upon 
Our helm. Ha ! Moor,"whv do you stand idle here ? 
Feels your dainty arm too delicate to strike 
For your country's weal, and the defence 
Of innocence? You are not a coward. 

Otho. Coward ! who calls me coward I hurl back 
The loathed thought from me. My throat cannot 
Utter it. Place me in front of battling hosts 
Estranged, and bent on honorable war, 
I will grapple fiercely with my foes. Here 
I cannot strike the meanest vassal or slave. 
But his dying look will torture me with thoughts 
Of former kindness, and deeds of friendship, 
And grateful remembrance. 

Cos. Go then, quick ; place 
The sceptre of power in Guido's hand. 
And smooth the bridal pillow for Gonsalvo's 
Love, that he may clasp Bianca in his 
Arms, and gloat upon her, with a Satyr's 



VITELLI. 89 

Eye, and see the proud traitor marshal once 
More hi« desperate followers. 

Soldiers, 
On, folloV me ! and fight with life and soul 
Upon the issue ; and hand that wedded 
To the faithful hilt, knows no divorce but death. 

Act V. — ^ScENE II. 

Chiido. My sight deceives me ; I see the tossing 
Of plumes, and the waving of the banners 
And the wild, hurrying disorder, and din 
Of defeat. 

6^05. [without'] Ha! what cries are those I hear? 
Nearer and nearer they come. My chafed blood 
Burns in my veins. By Heaven ! our foes are 
Upon us. Courage, brave soldiers, courage. 

Starts to rush out, and Gonsalvo meets him, 

Gon. Man well the walls, and guard the castle close, 
Or death awaits us.. The Senate now have 
Conjured up the foul fiend himself, 
Cusimo, who, like a whelpless lion, 
Rages through the crimsoned streets. The city's , 
Gates are his. 

Gioido. 'Tis false — false ! it was but his 
Spectre thy fears did see. Bear up nobly, 
'Tis for power and life we fight. Hark ! hark ! 
The trumpet sounds, for a surrender. Come 
On, we will defy them ; our armed castle's walls 
Are strong and high, and would brave a thousand 
Cosimos. Eing forth the war-cry, and shout 
Death or victory. 

AoT V. — Scene III. 

A Dungeon, a torch on the Table. — Shouts without. 

Or, Ha ! what shouts are those ? Ha ! ha ! this tyrant's 
Den is beseiged. Ha! ha! I rejoice. 
My veins thrill with pleasure, and intense joy. 
Guido and Gonsalvo, how they scorned 



90 VITELLI. 

Me ! I should have used the secret steel, 

Not mated thus boldly with them. Disarmed, 

Spurned like a loathsome reptile, and that, 

Too, by my bitterest enemies. Oh ! may 

Their every hope be withered ; may all 

The hoarded vengeance of fiends and man 

Burst upon them ; may their blood fester and turn 

To poison 1 Ha ! the guards have forsaken 

Me, to guard the outward walls, and lo ! a torch, 

Ha ! a horrid image rises before me. ^ 

The castle in flames, Guido and Gonsalvo 

Writhing in death. Ha ! ha ! 'tis done. Now will 

I consummate, with one fell act, my revenge. 

Act V. — Scene IV. 
The Castle, 

G^ddo. How goes it ? 

Oon. Badly, I fear. Cosimo 
And his band, fight like bold and desperate men 
Weary of their lives ; thrice have we repulsed 
Til em. Hark! they rally with redoubled force. 
And with their planted ladders throw their torches 
On the wall. 

Guido, Hurl them from the battlements. 
Blanch not; on ! the successful warrior's wreath 
Of laurels be ours, or a glorious tomb. Exit^ Gon. 

Enter a Soldier. 

Sol. The castle's lost! save thysel£ A band of blood 
Soon will enter it with murderous intent. 
Guido, Lost ? liar, this is thy reward. 

[Strikes him with his sword. 
Enter Cosimo. 

I will [Guido riLshes out. 

Rescue it or die. 

Cos, Some friendly arm threw 
Their iron gates full wide. Ha! they are traitors 



VITELLI. 91 

To themselves. By Heaven I the craven wretches 

Cower witliin tlieir den. I have roamed 

Their desolate walls in vain. Ha ! they rally 

Again. [^Cries without to the rescue. 

Enter Gonsalvo. 

Oon» Whither shall I fly ? the fiends themselves 
In fire and blood, seem against us. Guido 
Is wounded — the castle in flames — despair 
Palsy's my arm ; terror sucks out the life-blood 
Of my veins ; here would I lay down and die, 
But they would scoff and trample on my corse. 
Soul spare this fainting body on that I 
May avenge myself before my limbs are 
Stiffened, cold in death. \^Exit. 

Cos. I heard a voice. 
Come forth, come forth, most haughty Senator, 
And meet the sword that is wet and reekiug 
With thy brother-traitors' blood. Come forth ! 'tis 
Thy sworn and bloodiest enemy that calls 
Thee out. 

Enter Gonsalvo. 

Gon. Banished wretch ! fiend ! there is no 
Name in hell's dark catalogue too black to brand 
Thee with. Come on ! my all is staked upon 
The issue. [They fighi, Gonsalvo falls. 

Cos. What spell has thus blasted thy arm, that 
With weakened sinews, and relaxed strength 
Thou copst with me? Rejoice, Florence, rejoice! 
Treason has fallen, and innocence triumphed. 



Act V. — Scene V. 

Burning Tower — Castle of Gonsalvo. 

Guido [Lying Wounded.'] Here have I dragged with 
Myself to die. My life ebbs fast ; Oh, God ! [difficulty 
Must I lie here like a stricken stag, 



92 VITELLI. 

\STien the hunter's cry, and clanging steel ^ 
Are ringing in my ears. My death-wound pains 
Me cSrses, plagues, and convnlsions on him that 
Did it. May his arm wither and rot, like 
A sapless branch. 

Otho. I heard a groan ; who is 

Here^ 

Guido. 'Tis a dread phantom 1 a mockery 
Of my brain ; a vapor that I see ! 

OiJio. Giiido, 
Oh ! I cannot see thee die. Fly, Umao, 
VW nnick- the castle's in flames. 

fflo Are you come, smiling imp, to taunt and exult 
O'er my wretchedness? away, let me die 

^^muT' But such a death! Guido, 'tis 

Too horrible, and see the cloud-i-oUmg 

Vai^ors appear, stifling the breath, until 
• We a-asio under the heavy, thick pressure 

Of ^moulderinsc, suffocating ether, r . i i • 

Inrsee he flames gather quick around us. ^ [stabs Jam 

Sh^l I not help thel ? VOtho stoops over Mm and Gmdo 
aMo. BegLe ! your milky meek face make, me i^k 

With hate. Will you not begone ? i^tabs fum. 

Otho. Oh ! you have 

Killed me, Guido ; I thank thee for it. 

Death is sweet, very sweet to me. 
Qiiido. Ha! ha! . 

Who talked of death to me? Was it thou, 

With the Jewish gaberdine, all clotted 

With blood ? thou with the hoary hair ? or is 

It that Moorish dog ? Point not your finger 

At me Ha! ha ! ha ! I slew you ; do you mock 

Me '^ Who laughs? you that are wreathed with flame* 

And 'moke? Hell laughs! the red fire niarches agamst 

Me Vhat, ho I Antonio, soldiers, comrades, ^ 

To'thcresCTie; to the rescue ; I burn 

Unaided-'tis your liege-lord calls you 

Oxir-e on the deserters, cowards. Ob God ! 

Foi one draught of air; for a moment's strength 



VITELLI. 93 

To nisli forth, and perish in the contest. 
Come on ! come on ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 
[ With the convulsive effort of Death y raises himself up^ and 
sinks down Dead. 



Act V. — Scene VI. 



Orsini without the Walls of the Castle. 

Ha! ha! ha! the hirid flames are laughing 

Out into the night, and the eddying fire 

And smoke waves like the banner of victory. 

Rage, rage ye flames ! aye, burn, consume and waste, 

"With intense, quivering pain and agony 

Tlie bodies of my enemies, till they be 

Ashes. Oh ! there is joy in hell for this, 

A.nd its wide caverns echo and re-echo 

With horrid, tumultuous joy and laughter. 

Ha 1 ha I ye have all fallen into the pit 

( dug for you. How have I tortured you! 

*Iow have I revenged m3'3elf ; how does 

fly heart exult, and revel with delight ! 

iTet stop ; there is one, Bianca — I love 

ler, if that be love which turns my blood to fire, 

Vnd preys on me to madness. Yet 'tis made 

Tp of contrarieties ; for there is mingled 

Vith my love, hatred and revenge. I will 

'.njoy her ; then scorn her, curse her, 

Fntil she die maddened. Her brother dead, 

ler father doomed to die ; soon she will be 

^ friendless, orphan girl, she will then not 

Iscape me. This letter wherein is coined 

'he specious lie, that, stung by remorse, I 

)o repent me of my manifold guilt, 

Into her house shall gain my admittance 

Co her prison, where, with words of tenderness 

And mercy, in sugared accents, I will 

Win her to my purpose. THen will I throw 



94 VrTELLI. 

Off my monkish rags, and cloak me beneath 
A richer mantle, the victorious deeds 
Of my brother, Cosimo. 

Act Y. — Scene YII. 

Dungeon in the Ciiadel of Florence. 

Vitelli. Where am I? can it be that I am not 
Mad ! Oh ! I have passed a hideous night. 
There were spirits here who disturbed my sleep, 
In ghostly merriment. They dragged me 
Down, down into the dark chambers of the deep, 
Amid -shrieks of frantic horror. Ha! I hear 
The ponderous gates unfold. Who comes ? what now ? 

Enter Tiberio. 

Oh, you are come ;. you are my good angel. 
Yet the sight of any human face here, 
Would gladden me. 

Tib. Your son, G-uido, is dead. 

Vit. Dead ! dead ! K'o, jio, take that back, I beseech you, 
And I will give you gold, sparkling, shining gold. 

Tib. Most certainly he is dead. 

Vit. My son, alas ! 
My beautiful, my brave ; lies his pale form 
In cold, unmeaning death. I had many 
Goodly sons once ; fair and comelj^ was their | 

Complexions, features, shape. They are all dead 
Now. Guido was the last ; I had fondly thought 
The honors of our house would blossom on 
His head. Bianca, does she live ? Where is 
She ? Why comes she not? I loved her more 
Than all my sons. You promised me that 
I should see her before I died. Take this 
Jewel, and bring her quick. 

Tib. I will, my lord. 

Vit. Call me not lord, now. Call me villain, 
Anvthine: ; there is no name too black for me. 

^ [Exit Tiberio. 



VITELLI. 95 

Vit Guido dead ! Oh ! Heaven, wliy did you mock 
Me with his berearvement? why did you bow 
Me to the dust ? My son, thy life was more 
Bear than my heart's blood ; still is your image 
Before n>e — your boyish playfulness. Still 
Is present your winning smile, yoiu' gleeful shout. 
Hark ! I hear a footstep on the marble stair ; 
'Tis Bianca. Oh I that I had wings to fly 
To meet her beyond the massive dungeon's wall, 

Bianca. Oh, where is he t 

Vit It is Bianca's voice. 

JEnter Bianca. 

She comes ; it is my child. 

Bianca. Oh, my father! 

Vit. Oh, Bianca, come near me, for grief and age 
Have dimmed my sight, and I would feast these 
Eyes, before their vision fades, on your countenance, 
Beaming and bright in unsullied loveliness. 
Yes, there are the lineaments, the eye^he cheek 
Of thy beauteous mother — all the same. 
How could I think baseness had any part 
With thee? Look on your father, Bianca, 
For the last time ; for to-morrow, yes, an hour, 
Will find me dead, and I shall lay down 
My care-wrinkled brow, and grief-channeled cheeks, 
Beneath a hangman's axe. 

Bianca. ]S"o, no ; not so, 
My father ; I will not part from thee, now. 

Enter Tiberio. 

Tib, You must separate ; it is near the hour 
Of his death. 

Bianca. What ! would ye tear me from him, 
To lead him to death ? K'o, no, you shall not 
I will not let them kill thee ; I will cling 
To you, clasp my arms so closely around 
Your neck, that the red axe shall cut them ofi^, 
E'er they touch a hair of you. 

Tib, Hark! the bell 



96 VITELLI. 

Tolls. T must lead Biancn. forth. 

Vit. Hear me, 
Good Tiberio. When I am no more, 
And my pale, sheeted corse shall forever 
Repose in its quiet sepulchre, listen 
To no vile thoughts of her, for the dying 
Lie not, and I, a dying man, swear she^ 
Is innocent. Farewell 1 farewell ! befriend 
Her, use her gently, good Tiberio. 
She is cold as stone. Alas ! she feels me 
Not. I am ready now to die, death has 
No keener pangs than this. 

Acf Y.— Scene YIH. 

Senate Chamber; 

Cos. It cannot be thy tale is true ; thy words 

Appear delusive, like a dark sorcerer's 

Incoherent mutterings. Bianca 

In prison! arraigned and condemned 

As a murderess! What fiend hath basely 

Belied her ? Her father dead ; his bursts 

Of tremendous and terrible wrath, the storm 

Of suppressed emotion, ai^d bitter pride 

Have at last overwhelmed his reason. 

Although he bore to me the bitterest hatred, 

I deemed that he was too noble a being, 

Too compassionate and sensitive, to do 

An act of cold shuddering inhumanity^ 

Of towering, sublimated malignity 

To man. 

\Yhat mournful and sad spectacle 

Of woe is this? 

Tib. It is the dead body 

Of the Duke of Florence. 

JEJnter Procession of Senators, Ensign of the Council, Offi- 
cers, Captains, Attendants, bearing the dead body of the 
DuJce, wrapped in his cloak, the Ducal coronet upon the 
Hearse. Upon one side inscribed, Duke of Athens, upon 
the oth^r, formerly, and now no more Duke of Florence, 
GIUALTERI. 



VlTELLli 97 

Molini. Tlie mild Atlieniali 

Duke, us lie was wont oft to be called 

In foreign warp, a title lie has borne 

In proud array at foreign courts, has this day 

Fallen. With him, too, have passed away 

His faithful body-guard, those emissaries 

So often serviceable in times of peril 

And extreme danger. The soldier of the hour, 

He rose from out the ranks of common men 

By deeds of high renown and gallantry ; 

His grace, martial bearing, and chivalry, 

As sung by troubadour and rhyming men, 

Oft in the dawn of life gained the favor 

Of a court so hospitable to those crusaders, 

And knight-errant men, renowned thoughout 

The world, the polished court of ]S"aples. 

Ill-fated was the day v/hen he was sent 

As envoy to Florence, to terminate, 

With bristling soldiery, its fierce disputes, 

Aiid decide the fortunes of the hour ; dark to him 
The moment when first he drew his sword amid 

Contending factions. Misguided, and drunk 
With success, and ill directed, he grasped 
The title of I)uke of Florence. The honor 
Yf as no gift of popular sway ; no out-burst 

Of popular passion — -on its storni}^ wa%^e 

Fie never rode. Alone, he was sustained 

By those of every creed and tongue, and land 

The mild and gentle Greek, the natives of isles 

In the far ocean, Cyprus and Rhodes, 

And Corsica, soldiers of fortune, trained 

To arts of war, in the school of arms first taught 

By Godfrey, the Bold. The flower of his troop, 

So often led by the Duke himself into 

The thickest of the fight, is on this day slain 

In vain endeavor to revenge his death. 

Their names will be perpetuated in yerse. 

Gilded bronze, statues, of marble ; and truth 

Telling history will rescue them from 

Oblivion, and stamp them in und3^ing fame. 

Blind worshippers of fortune, they had through life 



VITELLI. 

Followed his star, and regarded him 

As one predestined of Heaven. Throngh 

The sombre and mysterious future, 

Their sure and unerring instinct had foreseen 

That he was the creature and chosen one 

Of destiny. The military renown 

Of the duke was inimense, and his conquests 

Colossal. His reputation encircled 

The world. At the birth-day of a monarch,* 

A festive occasion, and gala day, 

He was styled by him, not inaptly, 

The fortunate and triumphant general. 

Compared vrith whom, he vras himself but 

A soldier. The two titles won by his 

Sword, and imited in his name, are now 

Inscribed upon his hearse. ]^othiiig more 

Is left, but to enshrine his memory. 

To thee, Cosimo, we give in future, 

That weight and influence in affairs once 

Confided to the Duke of Florence. 

Senators. All hail, 
Cosimo, illustrious general 
And warrior, thy name shall brightly decorate 
Glory's page. 

31. By this solemn treaty and j-act 
Xov/ held in my hand, you are made a third 
Party to the State. By it you will receive, 
With the permission and special sanction 
Of the Senate of Florence, from whom all 
Proper authority flows, the estates 
Of those this day fallen in battle, to be held 
By those who shall come after you forever 
More, in the direct descending line. Thir, 
If affirmed by Ministers of State, 
Shall bind us and our successors to thee, 
xVnd those succeeding, to keep the title 
Good and perfect in every way, amid 
Wars, revolutions, factions, bloo<ly route. 
And ail changes of affairs, that time can bring, 

* r.obevt, King (if Xaple«. 



VITELLI. ^^ 

Irrevocable, immutable, and not 
To be shaken by a foreign potentate 
And king. 

Cos, xTot, not, I conjure you, on this 
Ill-boding occasion, vrhile yet the dead, the fruit 
\)i faction's bloody rage, are ^varni within 
Their graves. I ask another, dearer boon. 
Here, on my knees, I beg Bianca's life. 
SixB was and is the bright star of my life. 
Think, oh thinly how well sits power throned 
In power's heart. For my services to the state, 
Repay me with a far more precious gift 
Than life ; wither not up by blighting death, 
The last llovv'cr of an. almost princely, name. 

Chief of (lie Senate. Arise, arise, her life is yours ; this ! 
But a feebl<3 tribute of our gratitude. 
AH Florence welcomes the^ with sincere praise^ 
And with a thousand lou-d and gladdening voices, 
Proclaims thee deliverer, restorer 
To freedom, thy country — noblest benefactor. 



Act Y. — ScEXE IX. 

Dungeon. — A Bcuzquet PrcparecL 

JBiaihca. Oh! slay him not; he is my father! Whep\ 
Have I been ? .My brain is hot and dizzy. 
The red axe is waving before me. Harki 
The bell is stiil ringing for my father's 
I)ea-ii. Stop it — stop it — it strikes here and here. 

[Sinks down 2cpon the Couch. 
Oh ! Heaven, let me be cahn. Still does the mind, 
Oppressed v»dth grief, sink back upon itself. 
In dreary vacuity of woe. I cannot 
Steep my senses in oblivious rest. A fiend 
Has been here, a 13'ing fiend, I know he 
Was. He told me Guido was dead, Otho 
"Was dead, Cosimo in the city 1 Oh, Grod! 
The thought, he has forgotten me, and sought 
Another for his bride — not come to rae — - 



100 VITELLT. 

Xot fly to me, tliese long hours, tlie thouglit 

:SIaddens me. Hark! hark I I hear a tread ; 'tis 

That villain, traitor, murderer, devil, 

Monk; here is his letter. Spirit of my father ! 

Look kindly on me, while I avenge your death 

Upon the betrayer. Let me be calm 

A moment, to do an act of justice, 

IJntsr OrsiNi. 

Or. Oh ! Bianca, I thank you dearly ; yon 
Are so gracious to one that has wronged you. 
Perhaps you think of me ; I know you do. 
Mv letter is still in your hand. Ah ! love, 
Sorrow has paled your check ; you are not 

Well. 

JBlcmca. Oh, yes, yes— I am well— quite well. ICo/ivu.- 

Or.- Tills . L«^''<'" 

Thick, clammy, dungeon-air, agrees not AVith you. 
Oh ! I will do anything, unswear my tale 
To the Senate, and then you Vv'iil be mine, 
And vre will flee from the bitter, bustling strifes 
Of this pent city unto some Grecian isle. 

Bianca. Oh ! not yet, not yet. 
[Aside.] I cannot do it. , . , j 

Or. You shall ever be to me the bright liower 
Of hope, and love ; and delicious poesy 
Shall euwreathe a garland for you, and pamters 
Deck you in robes of unfading loveliness, 
And i"n the unchangiog hues of healthful youth ; ^ 
Andjsvheii the canvas speaks, touched by the pencn. 
The delicate lines of beauty all portrayed. 
You shall live for future ages to admire. 

Bianca. Stay ; 
Here is a little wine. Good Tiberio 
Gave it me, who brought your letter. ^ He has 
Ever been kind ; for he sweetly said, if I 
Drank it not, grief would l>lanch the white rose 
On my cheek." Come, drink with me, and let us 
Pledge the god and bnght goddess, whose altar? 
Arc consecrated, and hung with flowers, 



VITELLI. 101 

In the temple of love* 
Or. Most willingl}^ 

Bianca. Thanks, ye spirits of vengeance. [Aside* 

Or. What can be 
The matter \ Your hand ia cold, inanimate. 
I fear death is upon 3^ou. 
Bianca. On me ? ha I 
'Twas a strange fancy, then, disturbed me. 
I thought my father, whom your treacherous speech 
Betrayed to death, laid his cold hand on 
Yours, and plucked back the goblet 
Of wine. 

Or. Ha ! that wine, it burns within my 
Veins. 

Bianca. You are pale monk. Ha! hal ha! ha! I fear 
Death i? u]3on you. 

Or. My brain is burnt. Help, 
Help ! my limbs are crisped with a parching fire. 
Oh, for a cup of water ! \^Falls down. 

Bianca. Look on me, 
Monk : there was poison in that wine. I had 
Treasured it long, for death should sooner 
Wind me in his cold and chilling embrace. 
Than dishonor taint my maiden purity. 

Or. Murderess, traitress ; I betrayed ail 
Your house— why did I spare you ? Oh, that I 
Could grasp you now I May life's bitterest curses 
Sting your heart ! may the delicate stamp, too. 
Of beauty, in 3^our countenance be changed ; 
Aye, shrank up and shrivelled with convulsions, 
Until your ghastly, hag-like image be 
A terror to your soul ! Oh, I curse you, 
Curse you. ^ [Dies, 

Bianca. Give me back my father, monk ; give 
Give me back my brother. Ha 1 ha ! ha ! you are 
Dead, monk. Your tongue will ne'er recite again 
Its amorous lay. Your hands v/ill ne'er do 
More of villainy. They have all died, then, 
Father and brother, all forsaken me ; 
All forgot me, even Cosimo. Father, 
JBr other, soon will I be with you, [Drinks poison^ 



102 yiTELLI. 

Enter Cosmo 

Hark ! a tread. 

M}^ soul, confronted with a strange, unwonted ima^ro,. 

Grasps at a cherished hope for succor. 

Who's there ? my senses lioat in dim, obscure mist. 

The eagle-eye, the sun-burnt hue. It cannot be. 

Cos. Bianca, Bianca! 

Bianca. It is ; it is. 
My lover's voice. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Away, come 
Kot near me ; I am a murderess. There 
Is blood upon these hands. See here, see here ! 
Here is one who would have robbed you, if he 
Had the power, of your bride, your Bianca. 

Cos. Oh I what have you done, Bianca ? Oh, God ! 
'Tis my brother. Speak, speak, one word, one word. 
Ha ! he is dead ; his lip is dropped, and there 
Is an idiot laughter around his mouth. 
Awake, awake my brother. 

Bianca. Your brother ! 
No, no, it was a monk, a fiendish monk. 
He betrayed my father, betrayed 
My brother, and would have dragged to hell 
Your own Bianca. 

Cos. Ha! infernal light 
Doth shoot through m}' brain ; his maddening revenge, 
His fearful, moody passions, his blackening deeds 
Of guilt, have recoiled upon himself 
With terrible retribution. 
(,'ome, come, 

Bianca; let us haste from these dungeon 
Walls — this scene of death. I Avill Y>ardon you, 
The Senate will this day ratify their 
Decree already made, and liberate 
You from prison. Come, it is your lover 
Who kneels at thy feet. 

Bianca. Is it not, then, a dream? 
Give me your harid ; and liave you come to rescue 
Me from death, and shall we be happy once 
More, and sit in the garden in the bride's 
Bower, wreathed beautifully with garlands 



vriKLij. 103 

Of Howers, jisplioJel, paiisey, and ro?es? 

Xo, no, sec there, my father shak'.shis goiy head, 

And beckons nie to come to him. I come, 

I c o me ! [F< i Us i n t ■> h li a r rn^. 

Cos. Look not thus wildly to me. 

Bianca. Farevv ell ! 
I am dying. Bury me by the side 
Of m}' father, and plant some modest flower 
Upon my grave. Some air ; it grows cold — coh.L 



ERRATA. 



Page 12-— last line— for "about," read abound. l 

Page 13-~eightli line from bottom-for '^ town/' read Soanc. 
rago IB—nineteenth line from top— for " sun," Te^Lllaec-liM 
re^c 27--elghtli lino from top— for •' lonely," read lowly. 



,* 



^i' 



I 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



III 




016 103 915 9 



